THE WIDOW'S MITE.

The Widow had but only one, A puny and decrepit son; Yet, day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak, and small, A loving child, he was her all— The Widow's Mite. The Widow's might,—yes! so sustained, She battled onward, nor complained When friends were fewer: And, cheerful at her daily care, A little crutch upon the stair Was music to her. I saw her then,—and now I see, Though cheerful and resigned, still she Has sorrowed much: She has—He gave it tenderly— Much faith—and, carefully laid by, A little crutch.