Mistress Polly Poppenjay;
From your pickle others may
Learn to curb their pride a little;--
Learn to exercise their wit, till
They are sure no puddles may
Lie in front, Miss Poppenjay.
Howard Pyle.
[Illustration: Profession & Practice. This full page poem has the saint
at the door of a thin man with empty purse, then at the door with the
man well fed and full purse, and finally the saint alone scratching his
head.]
PROFESSION & PRACTICE
Once, when Saint Swithin chanced to be
A-wandering in Hungary,
He, being hungered, cast around
To see if something might be found
To stay his stomach.
Near by stood
A little house, beside a wood,
Where dwelt a worthy man, but poor.
Thither he went, knocked at the door.
The good man came. Saint Swithin said,
"I prithee give a crust of bread
To ease my hunger."
"Brother," quoth
The good man, "I am sadly loath
To say" (here tears stood on his cheeks)
"I've had no bread for weeks and weeks,
Save what I've begged. Had I one bit,
I'd gladly give thee half of it."
"How," said the Saint, "can one so good
Go lacking of his daily food,
Go lacking means to aid the poor,
Yet weep to turn them from his door?
Here--take this purse. Mark what I say:
Thou'lt find within it every day
Two golden coins."
Years passed. Once more
Saint Swithin knocked upon the door.
The good man came.
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