The Newtown bee., 1894-02-23
CALCULATIONS:
Around The Preside.
ST PETER AT THE GATE.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 23 1894.

St Peter stood guard at the golden gate With a solemn mien and an air sedate When up to the top of the golden stair A man and women, ascending there, Applied tor admission. They came and stood Before St Peter, so great and good, In hopes the City ot Peace to win,- And asked St Peter to let them in. The woman was tall, and lank and thin, With @ scraggly beardlet upon her chm, The man was short, and thick, and stout, His stomach was built so that it rounded out, His face was pleasant and all the while He wore kindly and genial smile. The choirs in the distance the echoes woke, An then the man kept still while the woman
 spoke. "Oh thou who guardest the gate," said she, eve two come hither, beseeching thee To let us enter the heavenly land, An play our harpS with the angel band. or me St Peter, there is no doubt, There's nothing from heaven to bar me cut, I've been to Q meeting three times a week, And almost always Pa rise and speak. I've told the sinners about the day When they'd repent of their evil way. I've told my neighbOrS-IVe told lem all Bout Adam and Eve, and the Primal Fall, I've shown them what they'd have to do If they'd pass in with the chosen few. I've marked their path of duty clear,- Laid out the plan Ot their whole career. I've talked and talked to 'em loud and long, For my lungs are good, and my voice is
 strong,
 
 The gate of heaven is open for me, But my old man, l regret to say, Hasn't walked in exactly the narrow way. He smokes and he swears, and grave faults
 he's got, And don't know whether he'll pass or not. He never would pray with an earnest vim, Or go to revival, or join in hymn So had to leave him in sorrow tlere While l, with the Chosen, united in prayer. He ate what the pantry chanced to afford, While l. in my purity, sang to the Lord. And if cucumbers were all he got It's a chance if he merited them or not, But oh, St Peter, l love him so, To the pleasures of heaven please let him go Eve done enough,-a saint I've been, Won't that atone? Can't you let him in? By my grIm gospel know tis so That the unrCpentant must fry below, But isn't there some way you can see That he may enter who's dear to me? It's q narrow gospel by which pray But the Chosen expect to find some way or coaXing, or toOltng, or bribing you So that their relation can amble through. And say, St Peter, it seems to me This gate isn't kept as it ought to be. You ought to stand right by the opening there And never sit down in that easy chair. And say; St Peter my sight is dimmed, But don't ilike the way your whiskers are They're cut too wide, and outward toss, The,d look better marrow, cut straight across Well, we must be going, our crowns to win, So open, St Peter, and we'll pass in!"
  St Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff, But, spite of his office, he had to laugh Then said, with 8 fiery gleam in his eye, who's tending this gateway-yOu or :" And then, he arose. in his stature tall, And pressed button upon the wall And said to the imp who answered tue bell "Escort this lady around to he'll"
 
 The man stood still as a piece of stOne,- stood sadly, gloomily there alone. A lifelong, settled idea he had That his wife was good and he was bad. He thought if the woman went down below That he would certainly have to go,- That if she went to the regions dim There wasn't ghost of show for him. Slowly he turned, by habit bent To follow wherever the woman went. St Peter, standing on duty there, Observed that the top of his head was bare. He called the gentleman back, and said, "Friend, how long have you been wed?" "Thirty years," (with Il weary sigh) And then he thoughtfully added "Why?" St Peter was silent. With head bent down He raised his hand and scratched his crown Then, seeming different thought to take, Slowly, half to himself he spake. Thirty years with that woman there? No wonder the man hasn't any hair! Swearing is wicked. Smokes not good. He smoked and swore,-I should think he
 would. Thirty years with that tongue so sharp? lIo Angel Gabriel Give him harp! jeweled harp with golden string Good sir, pass in where the angels sing! Gabriel, give him seat alOne,- One with cushion,-up near the throne! Call up some angels to play their best. Let him enjoy the music and rest! See that on finest Ambrosia he feeds, He's had about all the hell he needs. It isn't just hardly the thing to do, To roast him on earth and the future too" < They gave him harp with golden strings, A glittering robe and pair of wings And he said as he entered the Realm of Day, well, this beats cucumbers, anywayr' And so the Scriptures had come to pass
 be last"
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