THE LAMENT OF A MISSIONARY BOX.
By Mrs. Mary St. Clair
The Heathen Children's Friend.
FORGOTTEN and forlorn I live
Upon a dusty shelf;
I'm so dispirited and sad
I scarcely know myself.
A missionary box am I,
And better days have seen,
For coppers, silver, yes, and gold,
But now I'm very lean. When from that meeting long ago
You brought me here with glee,
"Our box shall soon be full," you cried;
"How happy we shall be!"
Bright hopes were they, but quickly dashed,
Once only full I've been.
Your ardor swiftly, sadly waned,
And I have lacked since then. The missionaries say, indeed,
That pence to pounds soon grow;
But older people ought to give;
We need the money so.
And thus in emptiness I wait,
And dustier grow each day;
While, heedless of my silent plea,
You round me work and play. Altho each day you have three meals,
You never seem to think
That I, poor, wistful mission box,
Should want to eat or drink;
Yet I am always hungry now;
My mouth stands open wide.
Dear children, drop the pennies in;
They'll be so safe inside. MRS. MARY ST. CLAIR.
Indianapolis, Ind.