Medford Historical Society Papers, Volume 15.

See those Indian pipes,
     That mossy bank near;
I wonder what rude sprites
     Have been smoking here!
Jack saw the intruders'
     Ill manners, I guess,
And gave a rebuke
     For their bold rudeness,
So stern, that, affrighted,
     No longer they stopped,
But fled—and in their haste
     Their tiny pipes dropped.

Now what of the sermon
     That Jack hath preached?
Our wandering thoughts have
     Not that subject yet reached.
Ah me! like too many
     That go forth to pray
In temples and churches,
     This calm, holy day—
Just as many of those
     Worshippers, I ween,
We've spent our time watching
     The audience here seen;
We can tell just what
     Their dresses have been,
Criticized their bonnets,
     Their looks and their mien,
Have gazed at the preacher,
     The choir have heard,
But of the sermon
     We know not one word.

All are assembled
     This sweet Sabbath-day
To hear what the priest
     In his pulpit will say.

Look! white Indian pipes
     On the green mosses lie!
Who has been smoking
     Profanely so nigh?
Rebuked by the preacher
     The mischief is stopped,

But the sinners, in haste,
     Have their little pipes dropped.
Let the wind with the fragrance
     Of fern and black birch
Blow the smell of the smoking
     Clean out of our church!

So much for the preacher:
     The sermon comes next,—
Shall we tell how he preached it,
     And where was his text?
Alas! like too many
     Grown — up folks who play
At worship in churches
     Man-builded today,—
We heard not the preacher
     Expound or discuss;
But we looked at the people,
     And they looked at us.
We saw all their dresses,
     Their colors and shapes;
The trim of their bonnets,
     The cut of their capes.
We heard the wind-organ,
     The bee and the bird,
But of Jack in the Pulpit
     We heard not a word!