Innocents, children, guileless and frail, 
Their meek little faces upturned and pale ; 
Wildwood Geraniums all in their best, 
Languidly leaning in purple gauze dressed ; 
All are assembled this sweet Sabbath day 
To hear what the priest in his pulpit will say. 
Lo, 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 clear out of the church. 
So much for the preacher, the sermon comes next; 
Shall we tell how he preached it and where was the text > 
Alas, like too many grown up folks who pray 
Or worship in man-builded churches to-day, 
We heard not the preacher expound or discuss ; 
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. 
J. G. Whittier. 
