The weekly intelligencer. [volume] (Lexington, Mo.) 1891-1901, 1895-03-16
POETRY WHAT Is POEThY.
The Old Man Passed-the Story Of His
Life and Reward Published by
Request.

The INTELLIGENCER does not want too
much poetry, but o and then it is COM
some good friends indignant. Here is a
piece that has been brought to this Office
by a bald headed man, and he says IL we
don't print it we may stop sending him a
paper. A dollar and a half is as big as a
new moon these hard times 30 we must
print the poetry.
st. Peter stood at the golden gate
With solemn mein and air sedate,
When up to the top OF the golden stair
A man and q women ascending there,
Applied for admission. They came aud
stood
Before st. Peter, SO great and good,
In hopes the city Of peace to win,
And asked st. Peter to let them in.
The woman was tall and AMI and thin,
With a scraggy beardlet upon her chin;
The man was short, and thick and stsut;
His stomach was built SO it rounded out;
His face was pleasant, and all the while
He wore a gentle and kindly smile:
The choir iu the distance the echoes woke
And the man kept still while the woman
spoke.
"Oh, thou who guardest the gate" said
she,
ave two come hither beseeching thee
To let us enter the heavenly land,
Aud play our harps with the angel band,
OF me-, st. Peter. there is no doubt,
There's nothing from heaven to bar me
out
I've been to meeting three times n week
And almost always I'D rise n speak.
I've told the SINNERS about the day
NAl al.-..Il ---.a ~ Nl...- A.-.I .nox-
I've told my neighbors-rve told them all
Bout Adam aud Eve and the Primal fall;
I've showed them what they'd have TO do
Ii they'd pass in with the chosen few;
I've marked their path of duty clear
Laid out the plan of their whole career.
I've talked and talked to 'em LOUD and
long
For my lungs are good and my voice is
strong,
So, good ST. Peter, you clearly see
The gate of heaven is open for me;
But my old man, ] regret to say,
Hasn't walked exactly in the narrow way:
He mocks and he swears, and grave faults
he's got,
And ! don't know whether he'd pass or
not.
He never would pray with an earnest vim
Or 60 to a revival or join a hymn,
So l had to cav him IN sorrow there
While 1, with the chosen, united in
He ate what tho pantry CHANGED to afford
While 1, In my purity, sang to the Lord.
And IL cucumbegs were all he got
It's q chance IL ne merited them or not.
But oh, St. Peter. / love him so,
To the pleasures Of heaven please let
him 60.
| Won't that atonef Can't you let him in?
By my grim gospel l know it's SO
That the unrepented must fry below:
Blu isn't there some way you can see
That he may enter, who's dear to met
It's q narrow gospel to which l pray,
But the chosen expect to find some way
OF coaxing, or fooling or bribing you
SO that their relations can amble through.
And say, st. Peter, II seems to me.
This gate isn't kept as it ought to be;
You ought to stand right by that opening
there
And never sit down In that easy chair.
And say, st. Peter, my sight is dimmed,
But i don't like the way your whiskers
are trimmed,
They are cut too wide, and outward toss;
They would look better narrow, cut
Well, we must be going, our crown to win
So open, st. Peter, and We'll pass in"
st. Peter sat quiet and stroked his staf,
But 10 spite Of his Office he had to laugh;
Then said with a fiery CLEAN in his eye.
"Who's tending this gateway, o or I?'
And then he rose in his stature tall,
And pressed a button upon the wall,
And said to b imp that answered the
bell,
Escort that lady around to hell"
The man stood still as q piece of stone
Stood sadly, Rloomily there alone:
A life .long settled idea he had
That his wife was good and he was bad.
He thought that II the woman went down
That he would certainly have to go
And IL she went to the regions dim
There wasn't q ghost Of a chance for him.
Slowly he turned by habit bent
To follow wherever the woman went;
st. Peter, standing on duty there,
Observing that the top of his head was
He called the gentleman and said:
Friend, how long have you been wedf"
"rhirty years." with a weary sigh.
And he thoughtfully added, "Whyf"
St. Peter was silent. With his head bent
down
He raised his hat and scratched his crown.
Then seeming Q different thought to take,
Slowly aud half to himself he spake:
Thirty years with that woman theref
No wonder the man hasn't a hair!
Swearing is wicked, smoke Is not good.
He smokeda and swore-I should think he
would.
Thirty years with that tongue 80 sbarp!
Ho! Angel GABRIEL GIVE ME A HARP!
A jeweled harp with a golden string,
Good sir, pass in where the angels slngl