1. One more day's work for Jesus; One less of life for me! But heaven is
2. One more day's work for Jesus; How glorious is my King! 'Tis joy, not
nearer, And Christ is dearer, Than yesterday to me; His love and
duty, To speak his beauty; My soul mounts on the wing At the mere
light Fill all my soul tonight.
One more day's work for Jesus, One more day's work for
thought How Christ my life has bought.
Jesus, One more day's work for Jesus, One less of life for me.

3. One more day's work for Jesus;
How sweet the work has been.

One lovely summer afternoon when balmy breezes blew,
A charming little buggy, scarce large enough for two,
Dashed down the narrow little street and stopped beside a gate,
Where a charming little woman dwelt whom he had met of late.

Out stepped a little body, looking like a happy bride;
He gently stood and placed her in a safe seat at his side:
" I'm going to show you now, " said he, (with eyes that twinkle merry,)
" The very prettiest of drives, it leads to Clements' Ferry. "

" If you have never heard of it, my darling little treasure,

One little Indian boy making a canoe,
Another came to help him and then there were two.

Two little Indian boys climbing up a tree,
They spied another one and then there were three.

Three little Indian boys playing on the shore,
They called another one and then there were four.

Four little Indian boys learning how to dive,
An older one taught them and then there were five.

Five making arrows then from slender shining sticks,
One came to lend a bow and then there were six.

Six little Indian boys wishing for eleven,

One in thy thousand statues we salute thee
On all thy thousand thrones acclaim and claim
Who walk in forest of thy forms and faces
Walk in a forest calling on one name
And, most of all, how this thing may be so
Who know thee not are mystified to know—
That one cries “Here she stands” and one cries “Yonder”
And thou wert home in heaven long ago.

Burn deep in Bethlehem in the golden shadows,
Ride above Rome upon the horns of stone,
From low Lancastrian or South Saxon shelters
Watch through dark years the dower that was thine own:

One holy Church of God appears
Through every age and race,
Unwasted by the lapse of years,
Unchanged by changing place.

From oldest time, on farthest shores,
Beneath the pine or palm,
One unseen Presence she adores,
With silence or with psalm.

Her priests are all God's faithful sons,
To serve the world raised up;
The pure in heart her baptized ones,
Love, her communion-cup.

The truth is her prophetic gift,
The soul her sacred page,
And feet on mercy's errands swift
Do make her pilgrimage.

— — One half of me was up and dressed,
— — The other still in lazy rest;
— — For yet my prayers I had not said;
— — When I close at her matins heard
A dainty-tonguid bird,
Who little thought how she did me upbraid.

— — But guilt caught hold of every note,
— — And through my breast the anthem shot;
— — My breast heard more than did my ear,
— — For now the tune grew sharp and chode
Me into thoughts of God,
To whom most due my earlier accents were.

— — How shall I blush enough to see

One got peace of heart at last, the dark march over,
And the straps slipped, the warmth felt under roof's low cover,
Lying slack the body, let sink in straw giving;
And some sweetness, a great sweetness felt in mere living.
And to come to this haven after sorefooted weeks,
The dark barn roof, and the glows and the wedges and streaks;
Letters from home, dry warmth and still sure rest taken
Sweet to the chilled frame, nerves soothed were so sore shaken.

I

One for her club and her own latch-key fights,
Another wastes in Study her good Nights.
— — Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,
Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

Look at the Shop-girl all about us — " Lo,
The Wages of a month, " she says, " I blow
— — Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved,
Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show. "

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,
And she who caught Pneumonia instead,
— — Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,

One flower at a time, please
however small the face.

Two flowers are one flower
too many, a distraction.

Three flowers in a vase begin
to be a little noisy.

Like cocktail conversation,
everybody talking.

A crowd of flowers is a crowd
of flatterers (forgive me).

One flower at a time. I want
to hear what it is saying.

One evening, when the sun was just gone down,
As I was walking through the noisy town,
A sudden silence through each street was spread,
As if the soul of London had been fled.
Much I enquired the cause, but could not hear,
Till Fame, so frightened that she did not dare
To raise her voice, thus whispered in my ear:
" Bennet, the prince of hawkers, is no more,
Bennet, my herald on the British shore;
Bennet, by whom I own myself outdone,
Though I an hundred mouths, he had but one.
He, when the list'ning town he would amuse,