HUMOROUS HITS
AND
How to Hold an Audience

A COLLECTION OF SHORT SELECTIONS,
STORIES AND SKETCHES
FOR ALL OCCASIONS

By

GRENVILLE KLEISER

Author of "How to Speak in Public"

THIRTEENTH EDITION

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON

Copyright 1908 by
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
Published March, 1908

INTRODUCTORY

In preparing this volume the author has been guided by his own platform experience extending over twelve years. During that time he has given hundreds of public recitals before audiences of almost every description, and in all parts of the country. It may not be considered presumptuous, therefore, for him to offer some practical suggestions on the art of entertaining and holding an audience, and to indicate certain selections which he has found have in themselves the elements of success.

The "encore fiend," as he is sometimes called, is so ubiquitous and insistent that no speaker or reader can afford to ignore him, and, indeed, must prepare for him in advance. To find material that will satisfy him in one or in a dozen of the ordinary books of selections is an almost impossible task. It is only too obvious that many compilations of the kind are put together by persons who have had little or no practical platform experience. In an attempt to remedy this defect this volume has been prepared.

It is believed that the book will be valuable not only to the amateur and the professional reader, speaker, elocutionist, and entertainer, but also to the after-dinner and impromptu speaker, the politician who wants to make a "hit," the business man who wishes to tell a good story and tell it effectively, the school-teacher in arranging her "Friday Afternoon" programs, as well as for reading aloud in the family circle, and for many other occasions.

Providing, as this work does, helpful hints on how to hold an audience, it is hoped that the additional suggestions offered regarding the use of the voice and its modulation, the art of pausing, the development of feeling and energy, the use of gesture and action, the cultivation of the imagination, the committing of selections to memory, and the standing before an audience, while not as elaborate and detailed as found in a regular manual of elocution, will be of practical benefit to those who can not conveniently command the services of a personal instructor.

The author has been greatly assisted in this undertaking not only by the kind permission of publishers and authors to use their copyrighted work, but also by the hearty cooperation of many distinguished platform speakers and readers who have generously contributed successful selections not hitherto published.

The author gratefully acknowledges the special permission granted him by the publishers to print the following copyright selections: "Keep A-goin'!" the Bobbs-Merrill Company, "A Modern Romance," the Publishers of The Smart Set; "The Fool's Prayer," Houghton, Mifflin & Company; "Mammy's Li'l Boy," and "'Späcially Jim," the Century Company; "Counting One Hundred," the Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company; "At Five O'clock Tea," the Publishers of Lippincott's Magazine.

Grenville Kleiser.

New York City, February, 1908.

CONTENTS

PART I
HOW TO HOLD AN AUDIENCE

To hold the interest of an audience and to successfully entertain it—whether from public platform, in fraternal organization, by after-dinner speech, or in the home circle—is a worthy accomplishment. Moreover, the memorizing of selections and rendering them before an audience is one of the best preparations for the larger and more important work of public speaking. Many of our most successful after-dinner speakers depend almost entirely upon their ability to tell a good story.

The art of reciting and story-telling has become so popular in recent years that a wide-spread demand has arisen for books of selections and suggestions for rendering them. Material suitable for encores has been particularly difficult to find. It is thought, therefore, that the present volume, containing as it does a great variety of short numbers, will meet with approval.

There is, perhaps, no talent that is more entertaining and more instructive than that of reciting aloud specimens of prose and poetry, both humorous and serious, from our best writers. Channing says:

"Is there not an amusement, having an affinity with the drama, which might be usefully introduced among us? I mean, Recitation.

"A work of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and powers of elocution, is a very pure and high gratification.

"Were this art cultivated and encouraged, great numbers, now insensible to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked up to their excellence and power.

"It is not easy to conceive of a more effectual way of spreading a refined taste through a community. The drama undoubtedly appeals more strongly to the passions than recitation; but the latter brings out the meaning of the author more. Shakespeare, worthily recited, would be better understood than on the stage.

"Recitation, sufficiently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit, as well as of pathos, beauty, and sublimity, is adapted to our present intellectual progress."

To recite well, and to be able to hold an audience, one should be trained in the proper use of the voice and body in expression. This requires painstaking study and preparation. It is a mistake to suppose that much can be safely left to impulse and the inspiration of the occasion. With all great artists everything is premeditated, studied, and rehearsed beforehand.

Salvini, the great Italian tragedian, said to the pupils in his art: "Above all, study,—study,—STUDY. All the genius in the world will not help you along with any art, unless you become a hard student. It has taken me years to master a single part."

THE VOICE

The voice can be rapidly and even wonderfully developed by practising for a few minutes daily exercises prescribed in any good manual of elocution.[1] Learn to speak in the natural voice. If it is high-pitched, nasal, thin, or unmusical, these defects can be overcome by patient and judicious practise. Do not assume an artificial voice, except in impersonation. Remember that intelligent audiences demand intelligent expression, and will not tolerate the ranting, bombast, and unnatural style of declamation of former days.

Many people speak with half-shut teeth and mouth. Open the mouth and throat freely; liberate all the muscles around the vocal apparatus. Aim to speak with ease, and endeavor to improve the voice in depth, purity, roundness, and flexibility. Daily conversation offers the best opportunity for this practise.

A writer recently said: "Only a very, very few of us Americans speak English as the English do. We have our own 'accent,' as it is called. We are a nervous, eager, strident people. We know it, tho we do not relish having foreigners tell us about it. We speak not mellowly, not with lax tongues and palates, but sharply, shrilly, with hardened mouth and with tones forced back upon the palate. We strangulate two-thirds of our vowels and swallow half the other third. Pure, round, sonorous tones are almost never heard in our daily speech."

Speak from the abdomen. All the effort, all the motive power, should come from the waist and abdominal muscles. These are made to stand the strain that is so often incorrectly put upon the muscles of the throat. Aim at a forward tone; that is, send your voice out to some distant object, imaginary or otherwise, without unduly elevating the pitch. The voice should strike against the hard palate, the hard bony arch just above the upper teeth. Most of the practising should be done on the low pitches.

If there is any serious physical defect of the throat or nose, consult a reliable physician.

Do not overtax the voice. Three periods of ten minutes each are better than an hour's practise at one time. Stop at the first sign of weariness. Do not practise within an hour after eating. Avoid the habitual use of lozenges. There is nothing better for the throat than a gargle of salt and water, used night and morning. Dash cold water on the outside of the throat and rub it vigorously with a coarse towel.

[1] See "How to Speak in Public." a complete manual of elocution, by Grenville Kleiser. Published by Funk & Wagnalls Company. Price, $1.25 net.

THE BREATH

The proper management of the breath is an important part of good speaking. Some teachers say the air should be inhaled on all occasions exclusively through the nose. This is practically impossible while in the act of speaking. The aim should be to speak on full lungs as much as possible; therefore a breath must be taken at every opportunity. This is done during the pauses, but often the time is so short that the speaker will find it necessary to use both mouth and nose to get a full supply of air. The breathing should be inaudible.

Practise deep breathing until it becomes an unconscious habit. In taking in the breath the abdomen and chest both expand, and in giving out the breath the abdomen and chest both contract. By this method of respiration the abdomen is used as a kind of "bellows," and the strain is taken entirely off the throat. The breathing should be done without noticeable effort and without raising the shoulders. Whenever possible the breathing should be long and deep. While speaking, endeavor to hold back in the lungs, or reservoir, the supply of air, "feeding" it very gradually to the vocal cords in just the quantity required for a given tone. Reciting aloud, when properly done, is a healthful exercise, and the voice should grow and improve through use; but to speak on half-filled lungs, or from the throat, is distressing and often injurious.

Keep your shoulders well thrown back, head erect, chin level, arms loosely at the sides, and in walking throw the leg out from the hip with easy, confident movement. The weight of the body should be on the ball of the foot, altho the whole foot touches the floor. The breathing should be deep, smooth, and deliberate.

When the breath is not being used in speech, breathe exclusively through the nose. This is particularly desirable during the hours of sleep. As someone has said, if you awake at night and find your mouth open, get up and shut it. A well-known English authority on elocution says that as a golden rule for the preservation of the health, he considers the habit of breathing through the nose invaluable if not imperative. Air, which is the breath of life, has always floating in it also the seeds of death. The nose is a filter and deodorizer, in passing through which the air is cleansed and sent pure into the lungs. The nose warms the air as well as purifies it, and thus prevents it from being breathed in that raw, damp state which is so injurious to those whose lungs are delicate.

Speak immediately upon opening your mouth. Try to turn into pure-toned voice every particle of breath you give out. Replenish the lungs every time you pause. Light gymnastics, brisk walking, running, horseback riding, and other exercise will improve your breathing capacity.

MODULATION

Modulation simply means change of voice. These changes, however, must be intelligent and appropriate to the thought. Monotony—speaking in one tone—must be avoided. The speaker should have the ability to raise or lower the pitch of his voice at will, as well as to vary it in force, intensity, inflection, etc.

Do not confuse "pitch" with "force." Pitch refers to the key of the speaking voice, while force relates to the loudness of the voice. The movement or rate of speaking should be varied to suit the particular thought. It would be ridiculous to describe a horse-race in the slow, measured tones of a funeral procession.

Most of your speaking should be done in the middle and lower registers; but the higher pitches, altho not so often required, must be trained so as to be ready for use. These higher tones are frequently thin and unmusical, but they can be made full and firm through practise.

It is not necessary to study many rules for inflection. The speaker should know in a general way that when the sense is suspended the voice follows this tendency and runs up, and when the sense is completed the voice runs down. In other words, the voice should simply be in agreement with the tendency of the thought, whether it opens up or closes down. The lengths of inflection vary according to the thought and the required emphasis.

For most occasions the speaking should be clear-cut and deliberate. The larger the room or hall, the slower should be the speech, to give the vocal vibrations time to travel. Dwelling on words too long, drawling, or over precision in articulation, is tedious to an audience. The other extreme, undue haste, suggests lack of self-control, and is fatal to successful effort. Of course this does not apply to special selections demanding rapid speech.

There are numerous words in English that represent or at least suggest their meaning in their sound. One who aims to read or recite well should study these effects so as to use them skilfully and with judgment.

The most complete and concise treatment on the subject of expression is perhaps that given in Hamlet's advice to the players when he says:

"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you—trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and as I may say whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows, and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it....

"Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, tho it make the unskilful laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theater of others. O! there be players, that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably."

PAUSING

Words naturally divide themselves into groups according to their meaning. Grammatical pauses indicate the construction of language, while rhetorical pauses mark more particularly the natural divisions in the sense. To jumble words together, or to rattle them off in "rapid-fire" style, is not an entertaining performance. Proper pausing secures economy of the listener's attention, and is as desirable in spoken as in written language.

Pauses should vary in frequency and duration. It should be remembered that words are only symbols, and that the speaker should concern himself seriously about the thought which these symbols represent. The concept behind the sign is the important thing. The fine art of pausing can be acquired only after long and faithful study. Then it may become an unconscious habit. An old rime on this subject is worth repeating:

"In pausing, ever let this rule take place,
Never to separate words in any case
That are less separable than those you join;
And, which imports the same, not to combine
Such words together, as do not relate
So closely as the words you separate."

FEELING AND ENERGY

Before you can properly feel what you say you must understand it. Artificial and imitative methods do not produce enduring results. In studying a passage or selection for recitation, the imagination must be kindled, the feelings stimulated, and the mind trained to concentrate upon the thought until it is experienced. This subjective work should always precede the attempt at objective expression. Everything must first be conceived, pictured, and experienced in the mind. When this is done with intelligence, sincerity, and earnestness, there should be little difficulty in giving true and adequate expression to thought.

In all speaking that is worth the while there must be energy, force, and life. The speaker should be wide-awake, alert, palpitating. A speaker—and this applies to the reciter and elocutionist—should be, as someone has said, "an animal galvanic battery on two legs."[2] He must know what he is about. He must be in east.

Make a distinction between loudness and intensity. Often the best effects are produced by suggesting power in reserve rather than giving the fullest outward expression. Intensity in reading or reciting is secured chiefly through concentration and a thorough grasp of the thought. Endeavor to put yourself into your voice. Do not forget that deep, concentrated feeling is never loud. Avoid shouting, ranting, and "tearing a passion to tatters." Go to nature for models. Ask what one would do in real life in uttering the thoughts under consideration.

The emotions must be brought under control by frequent practise. Joy, sorrow, anger, fear, surprize, terror, and other feelings are as colors to the artist and must be made ready for instant use. To quote Richard Mansfield:

"When you are enacting a part, think of your voice as a color, and, as you paint your picture (the character you are painting, the scene you are portraying), mix your colors. You have on your palate a white voice, la voix blanche; a heavenly, ethereal or blue voice, the voice of prayer; a disagreeable, jealous, or yellow voice; a steel-gray voice, for quiet sarcasm; a brown voice of hopelessness; a lurid, red voice of hot rage; a deep, thunderous voice of black; a cheery voice, the color of the green sea that a brisk breeze is crisping; and then there is a pretty little pink voice, and shades of violet—but the subject is endless."

[2] See "Before an Audience," by Nathan Sheppard. Published by Funk & Wagnalls Company. Price, 75 cents.

GESTURE AND ACTION

No better advice can be given upon this subject than to "Suit the action to the word; the word to the action." Unless a gesture in some way helps in the expression and understanding of a thought, it should be omitted. Gesture is not a mere ornament, but a natural and necessary part of true expression. The arms and hands should be trained to perform their work gracefully, promptly, and effectively. If too many gestures are used they lose their force and meaning. Furthermore, too many gestures confuse and annoy the auditor.

Gesture should be practised, preferably before a looking-glass, so thoroughly beforehand as to make it an unconscious act when the speaker comes before his audience.

The correct standing position is to have one foot slightly in advance of the other. The taller the person, the broader should be the base or width between the feet. The body should be erect but not rigid. In repose the arms should drop naturally at the sides. Except in the act of gesticulating do not try to put the hands anywhere, and above all, if a man, not in the pockets.

IMPERSONATION

The aim here should be to lose one's self in the part. To subordinate one's tones, gestures, and manners, and to live the character for the time being, requires no mean ability. Impersonation calls for imagination, insight, concentration, and adaptability. The impersonator must be all at it, and at it all, during the whole time he is impersonating the character.

"To fathom the depths of character," said Macready, the distinguished English actor, "to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest quiverings of emotion, to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under words, and thus possess one's self of the actual mind of the individual man, is the highest reach of the player's art, and is an achievement that I have discerned but in few. Kean—when under the impulse of his genius he seemed to clutch the whole idea of the man—was an extraordinary instance among those possessing the faculty of impersonation."

Where dialect is used it should be closely studied from life. Stage representations of foreign character are not always trustworthy models.

ARTICULATION AND PRONUNCIATION

Articulate and pronounce correctly and distinctly without being pedantic. The organs of articulation—teeth, tongue, lips, and palate—should be trained to rapidly and accurately repeat various sets of elements, until any combination of sounds, no matter how difficult, can be uttered with facility, accuracy, and precision.

A standard dictionary should be consulted whenever there is a doubt either about the meaning or the pronunciation of a word. As to the standard of pronunciation, the speaker should consider at least these three things: (1) authority, (2) custom, and (3) personal taste.

There are many words commonly mispronounced, but only a few can be referred to here: Do not say Toos-day or Chews-day for Tuesday; ur-ride for ride; i-ron for i-urn; wus for was; thun for than; subjict for subject; awf-fiss for off-fiss; fig-ger for figure; to-wards for tords; dook for duke; ketch for catch; day-po for de-po; ab'domen for abdo'men; advertise'ment for adver'tisement; ly'ceum for lyce'um; oc'cult for occult'; often for of'n; sence for since; sujgest for suggest; wownd for woond; wether for whether; sen'ile for se'nile; ad'dress for address'; il'lustrate for illus'trate; ker-own for crown; winder for window; sor for saw; wickud for wicked; ingine for engine; ontil for until.

Words should drop from the mouth like newly-made coins from the mint. Practising on words of several syllables is helpful. Some such as these will serve as examples: "particularly," "unconstitutional," "incompatibility," "unnecessarily," "voluminous," "overwhelmingly," "sesquipedalian," etc.

IMAGINATION

The ability to make vivid mental pictures of what one recites is of great value to both reader and hearer. Everyone has this faculty to some degree, but few develop it as it should be developed for use in speaking. The clearer the mental picture the speaker has in mind the more vivid will it be to the hearer. Practise making mental images with pictures that appeal strongly to you. Try to see everything in detail. If at first the impressions are obscure, persevere in your practise and substantial results will surely come. Dr. Silas Neff gives a splendid illustration of this kind that can be effectively used for practise:

"A woodman once lived with his family near a shallow stream which flowed between high banks and in the middle of which, opposite his house, was an island. Half a mile up the stream was a dam which supplied water for a saw-mill a hundred yards below. One morning after the father had gone to the mill to work, leaving his wife in the back yard washing some little garments, their two little boys clambered down the bank and waded through the water to the island where they had spent many happy hours in play. About the middle of the forenoon, from some unknown cause, the wall of the dam suddenly gave way, the water plunging through and nearly filling the banks of the stream. The father in the mill heard the noise and looking out saw what had happened. Immediately thinking of his boys he dashed out, hat and coat off, on an awful race down the creek to save their lives. The water after leaving the dam flowed rather slowly for some time and he was soon quite a distance ahead, but he knew that unless he gained very rapidly here, the descent being much greater farther down, the water would overtake his boys before he could reach them. His wife suddenly looked up as the agonizing cries of her husband fell upon her ear. She rushed to the front yard. In quick succession she distinguished the words, 'Get the boys!' The father was a few hundred yards from his home. The water had reached the rapid part of the stream but some distance behind the man. The wife on hearing the words, tho not knowing what was wrong, jumped down the bank and ran through the water, shrieking to the boys. Just as she reached the island they ran to her and, without uttering a word, she took one under each arm and started back as wildly as she came. When half way over she saw her husband dashing out from the edge of the woods and the water not twenty feet behind him. They met at the top of the bank, the father grasped wife and children in his arms and the water passed harmlessly by."[3]

[3] "Talks on Education and Oratory," by Silas S. Neff, Neff College of Oratory, Philadelphia, Pa.

HOW TO MEMORIZE A SELECTION

Do not learn a selection simply by rote—that is, by repeating it parrot-like over and over again—but fix it in the mind by a careful and detailed analysis of the thought. As you practise aloud, train your eye to take in as many words as possible, then look away from the book as you recite them aloud. This will give the memory immediate practise and will tend to make it self-reliant.

Having chosen a selection, read it over first in a general way to secure an impression of it in its entirety. Then read it a second time, giving particular attention to each part. Consult a dictionary for the correct meaning and pronunciation of every word about which you are in doubt. Next underline the emphatic words—those which you think best express the most important thoughts. Underscoring one line for emphatic words and two lines for the most emphatic will do for this purpose. Now indicate the various pauses, both grammatical and rhetorical, by drawing short perpendicular lines between the words where they occur. In a general way use one line for a short pause, two lines for a medium pause, and three lines for a long pause. On the margin of the selection you may make other notes, such as the dominant feeling, transitions, changes of rate, force and pitch, special effects, gestures, facial expression, etc.

There is, of course, nothing arbitrary about this work of analysis. Its purpose is to make the student think, to analyze, to be painstaking. The following annotated selection should be carefully considered. Words on which chief emphasis is to be placed are printed in small capitals; those on which less emphasis is to be placed, in italics. It is not intended to be mechanical, but suggestive. After a few selections have been analyzed in this way, pausing and emphasis, and many other elements of expression, will largely take care of themselves.

"To BE || or NOT | to be, || that | is the question:—|||
Whether | 't is nobler | in the mind, || to suffer
The slings | and arrows || of outrageous fortune; ||
Or | to take arms | against a sea | of troubles, ||
And by opposing || end them? ||| —To DIE,— || to SLEEP, |||
No more;—||| and, by a sleep, || to say we end
The heart-ache, | and the thousand natural shocks ||
That flesh is heir to,—||| 't is a consummation ||
Devoutly | to be wish'd. ||| To DIE,—||| to SLEEP:—|||
To SLEEP ||| perchance to DREAM: || ay, | there's the rub; ||
For in that sleep | of death || what dreams | MAY | come, ||
When we have shuffled off | this mortal coil, ||
Must give us pause. ||| There's the respect, |
That makes calamity | of so long life: |||
For who would bear | the whips and scorns | of time, ||
The oppressor's wrong, || the proud man's contumely, ||
The pangs | of despis'd love, || the law's delay, ||
The insolence | of office, || and the spurns |
That patient merit | of the unworthy takes, ||
When he himself | might his quietus make ||
With a bare bodkin? || who'd these fardels bear, ||
To grunt and sweat | under a weary life, ||
But that the dread | of SOMETHING | after death—||
The undiscover'd country, || from whose bourn |
No traveler returns,—|| puzzles the will, ||
And makes us rather bear | those ills we have, ||
Than fly | to others || that we know not of? |||
Thus CONSCIENCE || does make COWARDS | of us all; ||
And thus | the native hue | of resolution ||
Is sicklied o'er | with the pale cast | of thought; ||
And enterprises | of great pith and moment ||
With this regard | their currents turn awry, ||
And lose | the name || of ACTION."

BEFORE THE AUDIENCE

As you present yourself to your audience, bow slightly and graciously from the waist. Be courteous, but not servile. Avoid haste and familiarity. Be punctilious in dress and deportment, and be prompt in keeping your appointments.

Be sure you have everything ready in advance. If you have to use any properties, such as a table, chair, eye-glass, books, reading-stand, coat, hat, gloves, letters, etc., see that everything is provided and in its place before the time set for your appearance.

Success often depends upon the judicious choice of selections for the occasion. What will be acceptable to one audience may not please another. The sentiment and the length of selections depend upon the time and place where they are to be given. When an audience expects to be entertained with humorous recitations, to announce in a sepulchral voice that you will give them a poem of your own composition, entitled "The Three Corpses," of melancholy character, is likely to send a chill of disappointment through them.

Never keep your audience waiting. If an encore is demanded, return and bow, or if the demand is insistent, give another number, preferably a short one. Do not be too eager to give encores; if the applause is not insistent, a bow will suffice.

PART II
HUMOROUS HITS

THE TRAIN-MISSER
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin—
Ef I haint missed that train agin!
Chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring!
But blast and blister the dasted train!—
How it does it I can't explain!
Git here thirty-five minutes before
The dern thing's due!—and, drat the thing!
It'll manage to git past—shore!

The more I travel around, the more
I got no sense!— To stand right here
And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
Ticket-agent's a dad-burned bore!—
Sell you a ticket's all they keer!—
Ticket-agents ort to all be
Prosecuted—and that's jes' what!—
How'd I know which train's fer me?
And how'd I know which train was not?—
Goern and comin' and gone astray,
And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!

Ef I could jes' sneak round behind
Myse'f, where I could git full swing,
I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!
Till I jes' got jerked up and fined!—
Fer here I stood, as a dern fool's apt
To, and let that train jes' chuff and choo
Right apast me—and mouth jes' gapped
Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!

"Afterwhiles," copyright 1898, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Used by special permission of the publishers.

THE ELOCUTIONIST'S CURFEW
BY W. D. NESBIT

England's sun was slowly setting—(Raise your right hand to your brow),
Filling all the land with beauty—(Wear a gaze of rapture now);
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair
(With a movement slow and graceful you may now push back your hair);
He with sad, bowed head—(A drooping of your head will be all right,
Till you hoarsely, sadly whisper)—"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered—(Try here to resemble Bess,
Tho of course you know she'd never worn quite such a charming dress),
"I've a lover in that prison"—(Don't forget to roll your r's
And to shiver as tho gazing through the iron prison bars),
"Cromwell will not come till sunset"—(Speak each word as tho you'd bite
Every syllable to pieces)—"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton—(Here extend your velvet palm,
Let it tremble like the sexton's as tho striving to be calm),
"Long, long y'ars I've rung the curfew"—(Don't forget to make it y'ars
With a pitiful inflection that a world of sorrow bears),
"I have done my duty ever"—(Draw yourself up to your height,
For you're speaking as the sexton)—"Gyurl, the curfew rings to-night!"

Out she swung, far out—(Now here is where you've got to do your best;
Let your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up your chest,
Swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal degrees,
Then come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't bend your knees;
Keep this up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and white,
Then gaze at your mangled fingers)—"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell—(Right hand to the brow once more;
Let your eyes look down the distance, say above the entrance door)—
At his foot she told her story—(Lift your hands as tho they hurt)—
And her sweet young face so haggard—(Now your pathos you assert,
Then you straighten up as Cromwell, and be sure you get it right;
Don't say "Go, your liver loves!")—well: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Reprinted from Harper's Magazine, by permission of Harper and Brothers.

MELPOMENUS JONES
BY STEPHEN LEACOCK

Some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think——" Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues.

I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate—such a dear young man and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own—absolutely nothing to do. He chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:

"Well, I think I——"

But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no, Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?"

Jones was always truthful—"Oh, yes, of course, I—er—can."

"Then please don't go."

He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again.

"Well, now, I think I really——"

"You must go? I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner——"

"Oh, well, so I could, you know, if——"

"Then please stay; I'm sure my husband will be delighted."

"All right, I'll stay"; and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable.

Father came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid.

After dinner mother undertook to "draw him out" and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them—photos of father's uncle and his wife, and mother's brother and his little boy, and awfully interesting photos of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of father's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of father as the devil for a fancy-dress ball.

At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose.

"I must say good-night now," he pleaded.

"Say good-night! why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?"

"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably.

Just then it turned out that the favorite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones' hat; so father said that he must stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Father had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then father began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night—they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and father put Jones to bed in the spare-room and curst him heartily.

After breakfast next day, father went off to his work in the city and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When father came home in the evening he was surprized and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung father's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child.

In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea and looking at photographs. He would stand for hours together gazing at the photograph of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform—talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing.

At length the crash came. They carried him up-stairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek: "Well, I think I——" and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry: "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Hear! Hear!"

At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said: "Well—the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon."

HER FIFTEEN MINUTES
BY TOM MASSON

At exactly fifteen minutes to eight
His step was heard at the garden gate.

And then, with heart that was light and gay,
He laughed to himself in a jubilant way,

And rang the bell for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him;

And told the servant, with joyous air,
To say there were fifteen minutes to spare.

And then for fifteen minutes he sat
In the parlor dim, and he held his hat,

And waited and sighed for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him,

Until, as the clock overhead struck eight,
He muttered: "Great Scott! it is getting late";

And took a turn on the parlor floor,
And waited for fifteen minutes more;

And thought of those seats in the front parquet.
And midnight came, and the break of day;

That day and the next, and the next one, too,
He sat and waited the long hours through.

Then time flew on and the years sped by,
And still he sat, with expectant eye

And lengthening beard, for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him;

Until one night, as with palsied hand
He sat in the chair, for he couldn't stand,

And drummed in an aimless way, she came
And opened the door with her withered frame.

The moon's bright rays touched the silvered hair
Of her who had fifteen minutes to spare.

And then in tones that he strained to hear,
She spoke, and she said: "Are you ready, dear?"

Reprinted by permission of Life Publishing Company.

THE FOXES' TAILS
ANONYMOUS

Minister—Weel, Sandy, man; and how did ye like the sermon the day?

Precentor—Eh?

Minister—What did you think o' the discourse as a whole?

Precentor—All I was gaun to say was jeest this, that every noo and then in your discoorse the day—I dinna say oftener than noo and then—jeest occasionally—it struck me that there was maybe—frae time to time—jeest a wee bit o' exaggeration.

Minister—Exagger—what, Sir?

Precentor—Weel, maybe that's ower strong a word, I dinna want to offend ye. I mean jeest—amplification, like.

Minister—Exaggeration! amplification! What the deil mischief d'ye mean, Sir?

Precentor—There, there, there! I'll no say anither word. I dinna mean to rouse ye like that. All I meant to say was that you jeest streetched the pint a wee bit.

Minister—Streetched the pint! D'ye mean to say, Sir, that I tell lees?

Precentor—Oh! no, no, no—but I didna gang sae far as a' that.

Minister—Ye went quite far enough, Sir. Sandy, I call upon you, if ever ye should hear me say another word out o' joint, to pull me up there and then.

Precentor—Losh! Sir; but how could I pull ye up i' the kirk?

Minister—Ye can give me sort o' a signal.

Precentor—How could I gie ye a signal i' the kirk?

Minister—Ye could make some kind o' a noise.

Precentor—A noise i' the kirk?

Minister—Ay. Ye're sittin' just down aneath me, ye ken; so ye might just put up your held, and give a bit whustle (whistles), like that.

Precentor—A whustle!

Minister—Ay, a whustle!

Precentor—But would it no be an awfu' sin?

Minister—Hoots, man; doesna the wind whustle on the Sawbbath?

Precentor—Ay; I never thought o' that afore. Yes, the wind whustles.

Minister—Well, just a wee bit soughing whustle like the wind (whistles softly).

Precentor—Well, if there's nae harm in 't, I'll do my best.

So, ultimately, it was agreed between the minister and precentor, that the first word of exaggeration from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk below.

Next Sunday came. Had the minister only stuck to his sermon that day, he would have done very well. But it was his habit, before the sermon, to read a chapter from the Bible, adding such remarks and explanations of his own as he thought necessary. On the present occasion he had chosen one that bristled with difficulties. It was that chapter which describes Samson as catching three hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, setting firebrands in their midst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and burning it down. As he closed the description, he shut the book, and commenced the eloocidation as follows:

"My dear freends, I daresay you have been wondering in your minds how it was possible that Samson could catch three hundred foxes.

"Well, then, we are told in the Scriptures that Samson was the strongest man that ever lived. But, we are not told that he was a great runner. But if he catched these three hundred foxes he must have been a great runner, and therefore I contend that we have a perfect right to assume, by all the laws of Logic and Scientific History, that he was the fastest runner that ever was born; and that was how he catched his three hundred foxes!

"But after we get rid of this difficulty, my freends, another crops up—after he has catched his three hundred foxes, how does he manage to keep them all together?

"Now you will please bear in mind, in the first place, that it was foxes that Samson catched. Now we don't catch foxes, as a general rule, in the streets of a toon; therefore it is more than probable that Samson catched them in the country, and if he catched them in the country it is natural to suppose that he 'bided in the country; and if he 'bided in the country it is not unlikely that he lived at a farm-house. Now at farm-houses we have stables and barns, and therefore we may now consider it a settled pint, that as he catched his foxes, one by one, he stapped them into a good-sized barn, and steeked the door and locked it,—here we overcome the second stumbling-block. But no sooner have we done this, than a third rock of offense loups up to fickle us. After he has catched his foxes; after he has got them all snug in the barn under lock and key—how in the world did he tie their tails together? There is a fickler. But it is a great thing for poor, ignorant folk like you, that there has been great and learned men who have been to colleges, and universities, and seats o' learning—the same as mysel', ye ken—and instead o' going into the kirk, like me, they have gone traveling into foreign parts; and they have written books o' their travels; and we can read their books. Now, among other places, some of these learned men have traveled into Canaan, and some into Palestine, and some few into the Holy Land; and these last mentioned travelers tell us, that in these Eastern or Oriental climes, the foxes there are a total different breed o' cattle a'thegither frae our foxes; that they are great, big beasts—and, what's the most astonishing thing about them, and what helps to explain this wonderful feat of Samson's, is, that they've all got most extraordinary long tails; in fact, these Eastern travelers tell us that these foxes' tails are actually forty feet long.

Precentor (whistles).

Minister (somewhat disturbed)—"Oh! I ought to say that there are other travelers, and later travelers than the travelers I've been talking to you about, and they say this statement is rather an exaggeration on the whole, and that these foxes' tails are never more than twenty feet long.

Precentor (whistles).

Minister (disturbed and confused)—"Be—be—before I leave this subject a'thegither, my freends, I may just add that there has been a considerable diversity o' opinion about the length o' these animals' tails. Ye see one man says one thing, and anither, anither; and I've spent a good lot o' learned research in the matter mysel'; and after examining one authority, and anither authority, and putting one authority again the ither, I've come to the conclusion that these foxes' tails, on an average, are seldom more than fifteen and a half feet long.

Precentor (whistles).

Minister (angrily)—"Sandy McDonald, I'll no tak anither inch off o' the beasts' tails, even gin ye should whustle every tooth oot o' your head. Do ye think the foxes o' the Scriptures had na tails at a'?"

THE DEAD KITTEN
ANONYMOUS

You's as stiff an' cold as a stone, little cat;
Dey's done frowed out an' left you all alone, little cat;
I's a-strokin' you's fur
But you don't never purr,
Nor hump up anywhere—
Little cat, why is dat?
Is you's purrin' an' humpin' up done?

An' why is you's little foot tied, little cat?
Did dey pisen you's tummick inside, little cat?
Did dey pound you wif bricks
Or wif big nasty sticks
Or abuse you wif kicks?
Little cat, tell me dat.
Did dey laff whenever you cried?

Did it hurt werry bad when you died, little cat?
Oh, why didn't you wun off and hide, little cat?
Dey is tears in my eyes,
'Cause I most always cries
When a pussy-cat dies,
Little cat, tink of dat,
An' I am awfully solly, besides.

Des lay still, down in de sof' groun', little cat,
While I tucks the green grass awound, little cat,
Dey can't hurt you no more,
W'en you's tired and so sore;
Des' sleep quiet, you pore
Little cat, wif a pat,
And forget all the kicks of the town.

THE WEATHER FIEND
ANONYMOUS

One hot day last summer, a young man dressed in thin clothes, entered a Broadway car, and seating himself opposite a stout old gentleman, said, pleasantly:

"Pretty warm, isn't it?"

"What's pretty warm?"

"Why, the weather."

"What weather?"

"Why, this weather."

"Well, how's this different from any other weather?"

"Well, it is warmer."

"How do you know it is?"

"I suppose it is."

"Isn't the weather the same everywhere?"

"Why, no,—no; it's warmer in some places and it's colder in others."

"What makes it warmer in some places than it's colder in others?"

"Why, the sun,—the effect of the sun's heat."

"Makes it colder in some places than it's warmer in others? Never heard of such a thing."

"No, no, no. I didn't mean that. The sun makes it warmer."

"Then what makes it colder?"

"I believe it's the ice."

"What ice?"

"Why, the ice,—the ice,—the ice that was frozen by—by—by the frost."

"Have you ever seen any ice that wasn't frozen?"

"No,—that is, I believe I haven't."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I was just trying to talk about the weather."

"And what do you know about it,—what do you know about the weather?"

"Well, I thought I knew something, but I see I don't and that's a fact."

"No, sir, I should say you didn't! Yet you come into this car and force yourself upon the attention of a stranger and begin to talk about the weather as tho you owned it, and I find you don't know a solitary thing about the matter you yourself selected for a topic of conversation. You don't know one thing about meteorological conditions, principles, or phenomena; you can't tell me why it is warm in August and cold in December; you don't know why icicles form faster in the sunlight than they do in the shade; you don't know why the earth grows colder as it comes nearer the sun; you can't tell why a man can be sun-struck in the shade; you can't tell me how a cyclone is formed nor how the trade-winds blow; you couldn't find the calm-center of a storm if your life depended on it; you don't know what a sirocco is nor where the southwest monsoon blows; you don't know the average rainfall in the United States for the past and current year; you don't know why the wind dries up the ground more quickly than a hot sun; you don't know why the dew falls at night and dries up in the day; you can't explain the formation of fog; you don't know one solitary thing about the weather and you are just like a thousand and one other people who always begin talking about the weather because they don't know anything else, when, by the Aurora Borealis, they know less about the weather than they do about anything else in the world, sir!"

THE RACE QUESTION
BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Scene: Race-track. Enter old colored man, seating himself.

"Oomph, oomph. De work of de devil sho' do p'ospah. How 'do, suh? Des tol'able, thankee, suh. How you come on? Oh, I was des asayin' how de wo'k of de ol' boy do p'ospah. Doesn't I frequent the race-track? No, suh; no, suh. I's Baptis' myse'f an' I 'low hit's all devil's doin's. Wouldn't 'a' be'n hyeah to-day, but I got a boy named Jim dat's long gone in sin an' he gwine ride one dem hosses. Oomph, dat boy! I sut'ny has talked to him and labohed wid him night an' day, but it was allers in vain, an' I's feahed dat de day of his reckonin' is at han'.

"Ain't I nevah been intrusted in racin'? Humph, you don't s'pose I been dead all my life, does you? What you laffin at? Oh, scuse me, scuse me, you unnerstan' what I means. You don' give a ol' man time to splain hisse'f. What I means is dat dey has been days when I walked in de counsels of de ongawdly and set in de seats of sinnahs; and long erbout dem times I did tek most ovahly strong to racin'.

"How long dat been? Oh, dat's way long back, 'fo I got religion, mo'n thuty years ago, dough I got to own I has fell from grace several times sense.

"Yes, suh, I ust to ride. Ki-yi! I nevah furgit de day dat my ol' Mas' Jack put me on 'June Boy,' his black geldin', an' say to me, 'Si,' says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen Cunnel Scott's mare, "No Quit," I's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'.' Hyah, hyah. My ol' Mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. I knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me.

"Did I win? Why, whut you spec' I's doin' hyeah ef I hadn' winned? W'y, ef I'd 'a' let dat Scott maih beat my 'June Boy' I'd 'a' drowned myse'f in Bull Skin Crick.

"Yes, suh, I winned; w'y, at de finish I come down dat track lak hit was de Jedgment Day an' I was de las' one up! 'f I didn't race dat maih's tail clean off. I 'low I made hit do a lot o' switchin'. An' aftah dat my wife Mandy she ma'ed me. Hyah, hyah, I ain't bin much on hol'in' de reins sence.

"Sh! dey comin' in to wa'm up. Dat Jim, dat Jim, dat my boy; you nasty, putrid little raskil. Des a hundred an' eight, suh, des a hundred an' eight. Yas, suh, dat's my Jim; I don' know whaih he gits his dev'ment at.

"What's de mattah wid dat boy? Whyn't he hunch hisse'f up on dat saddle right? Jim, Jim, whyn't you limber up, boy; hunch yo'sef up on dat hose lak you belonged to him and knowed you was dah. What I done showed you? De black raskil, goin' out dah tryin' to disgrace his own daddy. Hyeah he come back. Dat's bettah, you scoun'ril.

"Dat's a right smaht-lookin' hoss he's a-ridin', but I ain't a-trustin' dat bay wid de white feet—dat is, not altogethah. She's a favourwright, too; but dey's sumpin' else in dis worl' sides playin' favourwrights. Jim battah had win dis race. His hoss ain't a five to one shot, but I spec's to go way fum hyeah wid money ernuff to mek a donation on de pa'sonage.

"Does I bet? Well, I don' des call hit bettin'; but I resks a little w'en I t'inks I kin he'p de cause. 'Tain't gamblin', o' co'se; I wouldn't gamble fu nothin', dough my ol' Mastah did ust to say dat a hones' gamblah was ez good ez a hones' preachah an' mos' nigh ez skace.

"Look out dah, man, dey's off, dat nasty bay maih wid de white feet leadin' right f'um de pos'. I knowed it! I knowed it! I had my eye on huh all de time. O Jim, Jim, why didn't you git in bettah, way back dah fouf? Dah go de gong! I knowed dat wasn't no staht. Troop back dah, you raskils, hyah, hyah.

"I wush day boy wouldn't do so much jummyin erroun' wid day hoss. Fust t'ing he know he ain't gwine to know whaih he's at.

"Dah, dah dey go ag'in. Hit's a sho' t'ing dis time. Bettah, Jim, bettah. Dey didn't leave you dis time. Hug dat bay maih, hug her close, boy. Don't press dat hoss yit. He holdin' back a lot o' t'ings.

"He's gainin'! doggone my cats, he's gainin'! an' dat hoss o' his'n gwine des ez stiddy ez a rockin'-chair. Jim allus was a good boy.

"Counfound these spec's, I cain't see 'em skacely; huh, you say dey's neck an' neck; now I see 'em! and Jimmy's a-ridin' like—— Huh, huh, I laik to said sumpin'.

"De bay maih's done huh bes', she's done huh bes'! Dey's turned into the stretch an' still see-sawin'. Let him out, Jimmy, let him out! Dat boy done th'owed de reins away. Come on, Jimmy, come on! He's leadin' by a nose. Come on, I tell you, you black rapscallion, come on! Give 'em hell, Jimmy! give 'em hell! Under de wire an'a len'th ahead. Doggone my cats! wake me up wen dat othah hoss comes in.

"No, suh, I ain't gwine stay no longah—I don't app'ove o' racin'; I's gwine 'roun' an' see dis hyeah bookmakah an' den I's gwine dreckly home, suh, dreckly home. I's Baptis' myse'f, an' I don't app'ove o' no sich doin's!"

Reprinted by permission from "The Heart of Happy Hollow," Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.

WHEN THE WOODBINE TURNS RED
ANONYMOUS

They sat in a garden of springing flowers,
In a tangle of woodland ways;
And theirs was the sweetest of summer bowers,
Where they passed long summer days.
But, alas, when the sunbeams faded away,
And those brightest of days had fled
'Neath the old trysting trees they parted for aye,
When the woodbine leaves turned red.

When the woodbine leaves turned red,
And their last farewell was said,
They swore to be true, as all lovers do,
When the woodbine leaves turn red.
She gave him a flower sweet;
They vowed they would surely meet
In a year and a day; tho they parted for aye
When the woodbine leaves turned red.

They met in the garden again next year,
And their ways had been far apart.
He grasped both hands with a sigh and a tear,
And murmured, "My old sweetheart,
I have to confess it, I can't marry you,
For already have I been wed."
And she answered, blushing, "So have I, too."
And the woodbine turned red.

CUPID'S CASUISTRY
BY W. J. LAMPTON

We were sitting in the moonlight
Of a radiant, rosy June night,
When I whispered: "Kitty, don't you
Wish I'd kiss you? Let me, won't you?"

Kitty was a rustic maiden,
And I thought not heavy laden
With the wisdom of the ages
Writ on cultured cupid's pages.

Kitty answered: "No, I mustn't
Let you kiss me: my ma doesn't
Think it proper that her Kitty
Be like maidens in the city."

"Oh!" I stammered. Then did Kitty
Whisper in a tone of pity:
"I might kiss you and be true, sir,
To my mother; would that do, sir?"

WHEN MAH LADY YAWNS
BY CHARLES T. GRILLEY

When mah Cah'line yawns, ah'm 'spicious
Dat she tinks de time po'pitious
Fo' me to tu'n mah 'tention to de clock upon de wall.
Dat's de cue to quit mah talkin',
An' a gentle hint dat walkin'
Would flicitate de briefness of mah call.

Th' fus' gal that ah coh'ted
Ouah ma'idge it was thwa'ted
Because ah was so green ah didn' know.
When she yawns it was behoovin'
Dat dis dahkey should be movin',
Twell at las' she says, "Fo Lawd's sake, niggah, go!"

Den ah took mah hat an' stah'ted,
An f'om dat hour we pah'ted,
An ah nevah seen dat cullud gal no mo'.
But it taught me dis yer lesson
Dat a yawn am de expression
Dat invites yo' to be movin' to'ards de do'.

So take dis friendly wah'nin',—
Should yo' lady love stah't yawnin'
Altho de sudden pah'ting cost yo' pain,
If she's one you'd like t' marry,
Aftah one good yawn don' tarry,
Den yo sho'ly will be welcome da again.

WATCHIN' THE SPARKIN'
BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Say, Jim, ye wanter see the fun?
Jemimy's sparkin's jess begun!
Git deown—this box won't hold but one
Fer peekin' through the winder!
Yeou stay down thar jess whar ye be;
I'll tell ye all thar is to see;
Then you'll enjoy it well as me;
An' deon't yeou try to hinder!

That teacher is the dumbdest goose
That Cupid ever turned eout loose;
His learnin' hain't no sort o' use
In sparkin' our Jemimy!
Tho peekin's 'ginst the golden reule,
He told us t'other day in scheool
To watch him close; so git a steool
An' stand up here close by me.

Neow he's got suthin' in his head
That somehow ruther's gotter be said;
Keeps hitchin' up, an' blushin' red,
With one leg over t'other.
He wants to do the thing up breown.
Wall, he's the biggest gawk in teown:
Showin' her pictur's upside deown;
An' she don't know it nuther!

He's got his arm areound her chair,
And wonders if she'll leave it there.
But she looks like she didn't care!
I'll bet he's goin' to kiss 'er;
He's gittin' closer to her face,
An' pickin' out the softest place,
An' sort o' measurin' off the space,
Jess so as not to miss 'er.

If she'd git mad, an' box his ear,
'Twould knock his plans clean out o' gear,
An' set him back another year;
But she ain't goin' to do it:
She thinks the teacher's jess tip-top,
An' she won't let no chances drop;
If ever he sets in to pop,
She's goin' to pull him through it!

I gum! an' if he ain't the wust!
Waitin' fer her to kiss him fust!
He's goin' to do it neow er bu'st:
He's makin' preparation!
Neow watch him steppin' on her toes—
That's jess to keep her down, I s'pose.
Wall, thar, he's kissed her on the nose!
So much fer edecation!

By permission of Messrs. Forbes & Co., Chicago.

THE WAY OF A WOMAN
BY BYRON W. KING

It was the last night before leap-year; it was the last hour before leap-year; in fact, the minute-hand had moved round the dial face of the clock until it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,—fifteen minutes of leap-year. John and Mary were seated in Mary's father's parlor. There was plenty of furniture there but they were using only a limited portion of it. John watched the minute-hand move round the dial face of the clock until, like the finger of destiny, it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,—fifteen minutes of leap-year, when he gasped hard, clutched his coat collar, and said,—

"Mary, in just fifteen minutes, Mary,—fifteen minutes by that clock, Mary,—another year, Mary,—like the six thousand years that have gone before it, Mary,—will have gone into the great Past and be forgotten in oblivion, Mary,—and I want to ask you, Mary,—to-night, Mary,—on this sofa, Mary,—if for the next six thousand years,—Mary!!!——"

"John," she said with a winning smile, "you seem very much excited, John,—can I do anything to help you, John?"

"Just sit still, Mary,—just sit still. In just twelve minutes, Mary,—twelve minutes by this clock, Mary,—like the six thousand clocks that have gone before it, Mary,—will be forgotten, Mary,—and I want to ask this clock, Mary,—to-night, on this sofa, Mary,—if when we've been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,—in oblivion, Mary,—and six thousand sofas, Mary!!——"

"John," she said, more smilingly than ever, "you seem quite nervous; would you like to see father?"

"Not for the world, Mary, not for the world! In just eight minutes, Mary,—eight minutes by that awful clock, we'll be forgotten, Mary,—and I want to ask six thousand fathers, Mary,—if when this sofa, Mary,—has been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,—in six thousand oblivions,—I want to ask six thousand Marys six thousand times, Mary!!!!——"

"John," she said, "you don't seem very well. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Mary,—in just three minutes, Mary,—three minutes by that dreadful clock, Mary,—we'll be forgotten, Mary,—six thousand times,—and I want to ask six thousand sofas, Mary,—if when six thousand oblivions have forgotten six thousand fathers in six thousand years, I want to ask six thousand Marys, six thousand times, Mary!!!!——"

Bang! the clock struck. It was leap-year. The clock struck twelve and Mary turning to John, sweetly said:

"John, it's leap-year; will you marry me?"

"Yes!!!"

Gentlemen, there is no use talking, the way of a woman beats you all.

THE YACHT CLUB SPEECH
ANONYMOUS

Mr. Chairman—a—a—a—Mr. Commodore—beg pardon—I assure you that until this moment I had not the remotest expectation that I should be called upon to reply to this toast. (Pauses, turns round, pulls MS. out of pocket and looks at it.) Therefore I must beg of you, Mr. Captain—a—a—Mr. Commatain—a—a—Mr.—Mr. Cappadore—that you will pardon the confused nature of these remarks, being as they must necessarily be altogether impromptu and extempore. (Pauses, turns round and looks at MS.) But Mr. Bos'an—a—a—Mr. Bosadore—I feel—I feel even in these few confused expromptu and intempore—intomptu and exprempore—extemptu and imprempore—exprompore remarks—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet, words of the poet—poet—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet—of the poet—poet, and in these few confused remarks—in the words of the poet—(turns round, looks at MS.)—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet that I feel my heart swell within me. Now Mr. Capasun, Mr. Commasun, why does my heart swell within me—in the few confused—why does my heart swell within me—swell within me—swell within me—what makes my heart swell within me—why does it swell—swell within me? (Turns round and looks at MS.) Why, Mr. Cappadore—look at George Washington—what did he do?—in the few confused——(Strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come.) He—huh—he—huh—he—huh—(turns round and looks at MS.)—he took his stand upon the ship of state—he stood upon the maintopgallant-jib-boomsail and reefed the quivering sail—and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition—a—a—a—into the haven of safety. And what did he do then? What did he do then? What did he do then? He—he—he—(looks at MS.)—there he stood. And then his grateful country-men gathered round him—they gathered round George Washington—they placed him on the summit of the cipadel—their capadol—they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world—around his brow they placed a never-dying wreath—and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear——(Flourishes MS. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion.)

MAMMY'S LI'L' BOY
BY H. S. EDWARDS

Who all time dodgin' en de cott'n en de corn?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time stealin' ole massa's dinner-horn?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, run ter es mammy
En she tek 'im in 'er arms,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time runnin' ole gobble roun' de yard?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who tek 'e stick 'n hit ole possum dog so hard?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, run ter es mammy
En climb up en 'er lap,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time stumpin' es toe ergin er rock?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time er-rippin' big hole en es frock?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, run ter es mammy
En she wipe es li'l' eyes,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time er-losin' de shovel en de rake?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time tryin' ter ride 'e lazy drake?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
Oh, scoot fer yer mammy
En she hide yer f'om yer ma,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time er-trottin' ter de kitchen fer er bite?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who mess 'esef wi' taters twell his clothes dey look er sight?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o, li'l boy!
En 'e run ter es mammy
Fer ter git 'im out er trouble,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Who all time er-frettin' en de middle er de day?
Mammy's li'l' boy, mammy's li'l' boy!
Who all time er-gettin' so sleepy 'e can't play?
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.

Byo baby boy, oh bye,
By-o li'l' boy!
En 'e come ter es mammy
Ter rock 'im en 'er arms,
Mammy's li'l' baby boy.
Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo,
Shoo, shoo, shoo!

Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo,
Shoo, li'l' baby, shoo!
Shoo, shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo,
Shoo, shoo, shoo,
Shoo....

Deir now, lay right down on mammy's bed en go 'long back
ter sleep,—shoo-shoo!

Reprinted by permission

CORYDON
BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

Shepherd

Good sir, have you seen pass this way
A mischief straight from market-day?
You'd know her at a glance, I think;
Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;
She has a way of looking back
Over her shoulder, and, alack!
Who gets that look one time, good sir,
Has naught to do but follow her.

Pilgrim

I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Tho she that passed had lips like pinks.

Shepherd

Or like two strawberries made one
By some sly trick of dew and sun.

Pilgrim

A poet!

Shepherd

Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flock on yonder plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.
But she that passed—you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwell herein in Arcady?

Pilgrim

Her skin was as the satin bark
Of birches.

Shepherd

Light or dark?

Pilgrim

Quite dark.

Shepherd

Then 't was not she.

Pilgrim

The peach's side
That gets the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a somber mist.

Shepherd

No, that is not the maid I seek,—
Her hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassels of the corn.
And yet—brown locks are far from bad.

Pilgrim

Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the willow tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;
Her hand—in sooth I lack the words—
Her hand, five slender snow-white birds;
Her voice—tho she but said "Godspeed"—
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And her eye—my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire—
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.

Shepherd—thoughtfully

Good sir, which way did this one go?

Pilgrim—solus

So, he is off! the silly youth
Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.
He loves—thus lads at first are blind—
No woman, only womankind.

From the Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Household Edition, by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

GIB HIM ONE UB MINE
BY DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS

A little urchin, ragged, black,
An old cigar "stump" found,
And visions of a jolly smoke,
Began to hover 'round.
But finding that he had no match,
A big store he espied,
And straightway for it made a dash
To have his wants supplied.

"I have no match!" the owner said,
"And, even if I do,
I have no match, you understand,
For such a thing as you!"
Down in the ragged pantaloons,
The little black hand went,
And forth it came, now holding fast
A big old-fashioned cent.

"Gib me a box," the urchin said,
His bosom filled with joy;
And calmly lighted his "cigar,"
A radiant happy boy.
Then handing back the box, he said,
As his face with pride did shine:
"Nex' time a gent'mun wants a match,
Jes' gib him one ub mine!"

A LESSON WITH THE FAN
ANONYMOUS

If you want to learn a lesson with the fan,
I'm quite prepared to teach you all I can.
So ladies, everyone, pray observe how it is done,
This simple little lesson with the fan!

If you chance to be invited to a ball,
To meet someone you don't expect at all,
And you want him close beside you, while a dozen friends divide you,
Well, of course—it's most unladylike to call.

So you look at him a minute, nothing more,
And you cast your eyes demurely on the floor,
Then you wave your fan, just so, well—toward you, don't you know,—
It's a delicate suggestion,—nothing more!

When you see him coming to you (simple you),
Oh! be very, very careful what you do;
With your fan just idly play, and look down, as if to say
It's a matter of indifference to you!

Then you flutter and you fidget with it, so!
And you hide your little nose behind it low,
Till, when he begins to speak, you just lay it on your cheek,
In that fascinating manner that you know!

And when he tells the old tale o'er and o'er,
And vows that he will love you evermore,—
Gather up your little fan, and secure him while you can,—
It's a delicate suggestion,—nothing more!

THE UNDERTOW
BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN

You hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done
Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won;
The waters may look placid on the surface all aroun',
Yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down.

Since the days of Eve and Adam, when the fight of life began,
It aint been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man;
He may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go,
And yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow.

He may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer brains;
He may be always workin' with the patientest of pains,
And yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know
What heights he might have climbed to but fer the undertow?

You've heard the Yankee story of the hen's nest with a hole,
An' how the hen kept layin' eggs with all her might an' soul,
Yet never got a settin', not a single egg, I trow;
That hen was simply kickin' 'gainst a hidden undertow.

There's holes in lots of hen's nests, an' you've got to peep below
To see the eggs a-rollin' where they hadn't ought to go.
Don't blame a man fer failin' to achieve a laurel crown
Until you're sure the undertow aint draggin' of him down.

MARKETING
ANONYMOUS

A little girl goes to market for her mother.

Butcher.—"Well, little girl, what can I do for you?"

Little Girl.—"How much is chops this morning, mister?"

B.—"Chops, 20 cents a pound, little girl."

L. G.—"Oh! 20 cents a pound for chops; that's awful expensive. How much is steak?"

B.—"Steak is 22 cents a pound."

L. G.—"That's too much! How much is chicken?"

B.—"Chicken is 25 cents a pound" (impatiently).

L. G.—"Oh! 25 cents for chicken. Well my ma don't want any of them!"

B.—"Well, little girl, what do you want?"

L. G.—"Oh, I want an automobile, but my ma wants 5 cents' worth of liver!"

A SPRING IDYL ON "GRASS"
BY NIXON WATERMAN

Oh, the gentle grass is growing
In the vale and on the hill;
We can not hear it growing,
Still 'tis growing very still:
And in the spring it springs to life,
With gladness and delight;
I see it growing day by day,—
It also grows by night.
And, now, once more as mowers whisk
The whiskers from the lawn,
They'll rouse us from our slumbers,—
At the dawning of the dawn:
It saddens my poor heart to think
What we should do for hay,
If grass instead of growing up
Would grow the other way.
Its present rate of growing,
Makes it safe to say that soon,
'Twill cover all the hills at morn
And in the afternoon.
And I have often noticed
As I watched it o'er and o'er,
It grows, and grows, and grows, awhile,
And then it grows some more,—
If it keeps growing right along
It shortly will be tall;
It humps itself thro' strikes,
And legal holidays and all;
It's growing up down all the streets;
And clean around the square;
One end is growing in the ground,
The other in the air:
If the earth possest no grass
Methinks its beauty would be dead;
We'd have to make the best of it,
And use baled hay instead.

From "A Book of Verses," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.

INTRODUCIN' THE SPEECHER
BY EDWIN L. BARKER

Introductory Remarks. This selection is a little caricature, introducing two characters. "The Speecher" is one of those young men who has passed through college in one year,—passed through,—and has increasing difficulty in finding a hat large enough to fit his head. His oratorical powers have been praised by his friends, and he never misses an opportunity to exhibit his "great natural talent." "The Chairman" is frequently met in the smaller towns. He has lived there a long time, is acquainted with everybody, makes it a point to form the acquaintance of all newcomers, takes an interest in public affairs, and is often called upon to introduce the speakers who visit the town. His principal weakness is that in the course of his introductory remarks he usually says more than the speaker himself.

The Chairman. (Comes forward to table at center, stands at right, looks nervously at audience, goes to left of table, does not know what to do with hands, returns to right of table, begins in high, nervous voice.) "Gentlemen an' ladies—an' the rest on ye—(goes left of table) I s'pose ye all knowed afore, as per'aps ye do now, that I did not come out to make a speech; but to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher has jes come, an' is right in there. (Points with thumb over shoulder to L. and goes R. of table.) I don't know why 'twas they called on me to 'nounce the speecher, unless it is that I've lived here in your midst fer a long while, an' am 'quainted with very nigh every one fer four or five miles about, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is—right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) I s'pose I'm as well calc'lated to 'nounce the speecher as any on ye, an' I s'pose that's why I'm here to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is—right in there. (Points L. and goes R.) You know I've lived here in your midst a long time, an' have allus tuk an active part in all public affairs, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) As I said once afore, I've lived here in your midst fer a long time, an' have allus tuk active part in all public affairs, an' public doin's ginerally. Ye know I was 'pinted tax collector once, an' was road-overseer fer a little while, an' run fer constable of this here township—but I—I didn't git it. (Quickly.) Now, the speecher is—right there. (Points L. and goes R. Wipes forehead with handkerchief.) I jes want to say a word to the young men this evenin'—as I see quite a sprinklin' of 'em here—an' that is that I'd like fer all the young men to grow up an' hold high and honorable offices like I've done. But there, I can't stop any longer, 'cause the speecher is—right in there. (Starts to go, but returns.) Now, I don't want you to think I don't want to talk to ye, fer I do. I do so like to talk to the young men, an' the old men, an' them that are not men. (Smiles.) I love to talk to ye. But, of course, I can't talk to you now, 'cause the speecher is—right in there. (Points L.) But some other time when the speecher's not here—I think there'll be a time afore long—why, I'll talk to you. (Grows confused.) Of course, you know, I'd talk to you now; but—uh—that is—I think there'll be a time afore long—at some other—you know—I—you—the—(desperately) the speecher is right in there. (Rushes to L., stops, and with back to audience, concludes.) I will now interdoose to ye Charles William Albright, of Snigger's Crossroads, a very promisin' young attorney of that place, who will talk to ye. As I said afore, the speecher is right in here. Now, the speecher is right out there." (While standing with back to audience, run fingers through hair to give it a long, scholarly appearance, put on glasses, and take from chair roll of paper and place under arm. To be effective, this paper should be about one foot wide and ten feet long, folded in about five or six-inch folds. At conclusion of chairman's speech, turn and walk to table as the speecher.)

The Speecher. (Walks to table with a strut. Face should have a wise, solemn, self-satisfied expression. Stops at table, surveys the audience with solemn dignity, clears the throat, lays roll of paper on table, takes out handkerchief, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, lays handkerchief on table, surveys audience again, slowly unrolls paper and lays on table, surveys audience again, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, poses with one hand on table.) "Ladies—and—gentlemen—and fellow citizens. (Rises on toes and comes back on heels, as practised by some public speakers.) I have fully realized the magnitude of this auspicious occasion, and have brought from out the archives of wisdom one of those bright, extemporaneous subjects, to which, you know, I always do (rising inflection) ample justice. (Rises on toes, clears throat, applies handkerchief to forehead.) The subject for this evening's discussion (very solemn) is coal oil. (Clears throat and looks wise.) Now, the first question that arises is: How do they get it? (In measured tone, on toes, tapping words off on fingers of left hand with forefinger of right hand.) How—do—they—get—it? (Soaringly.) My dear friends, some get it by the pint, and some by the quart. (Clears throat, wipes perspiration from forehead.) But, you say, how do they get it in the first place? (Tragically.) Ah, my dear friends, as Horace Greeley has so fittingly exprest it—that is the question. (Quickly.) But I will explain. When they want to get it they take a great, mammoth auger (imitates) and they bore, and they bore, and they bore, and—(looks at paper quickly)—and they bore! And when they strike the oil it just squirts up. That's how they get it! (Rises on toes, smacks lips and looks wise.) Now, you all know, coal oil is used for a great many things. It is used for medicine, to burn in the lamp, to blow up servant girls when they make a fire with it, and—many other useful things. (Wipes mouth and puts handkerchief in pocket.) The gentlemen in charge will now pass the hat, being careful to lock the door back there so that none of those boys from Squeedunk can get out before they chip in. (Takes paper and rolls it up.) I will say that I expect to deliver another lecture here two weeks from to-night—two weeks from to-night—upon which occasion I would like to see all the children present, as the subject will be of special interest to (rises on toes, closes eyes) the little ones. The subject on that occasion will be 'Will We Bust the Trusts, or Will the Trusts Bust Us?'" (Puts roll of paper under arm and stalks off as if having captured the world.)

As recited by Edwin L. Barker and used by permission.

COUNTING ONE HUNDRED
BY JAMES M. BAILEY

A Danbury man named Reubens, recently saw a statement that counting one hundred when tempted to speak an angry word would save a man a great deal of trouble. This statement sounded a little singular at first, but the more he read it over the more favorably he became imprest with it, and finally concluded to adopt it.

Next door to Reubens lives a man who made five distinct attempts in a fortnight to secure a dinner of green peas by the first of July, but has been retarded by Reubens' hens. The next morning after Reubens made his resolution, this man found his fifth attempt had been destroyed. Then he called on Reubens. He said:

"What in thunder do you mean by letting your hens tear up my garden?"

Reubens was prompted to call him various names, but he remembered his resolution, put down his rage, and meekly said:

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight——"

The mad neighbor, who had been eyeing this answer with suspicion, broke in again:

"Why don't you answer my question, you rascal?"

But still Reubens maintained his equanimity, and went on with the test.

"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen——"

The mad neighbor stared harder than ever.

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one——"

"You're a mean thief!" said the mad neighbor, backing toward the fence.

Reubens' face flushed at this charge, but he only said:

"Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six——"

At this figure the neighbor got up on the fence in some haste, but suddenly thinking of his peas, he said:

"You mean, contemptible, old rascal! I could knock your head against my barn and I'll——"

"Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three——"

Here the neighbor ran for the house, and entering it, violently slammed the door behind him. Reubens did not let up on the enumeration, but stood out there alone in his own yard, and kept on counting, while his burning cheeks and flashing eyes eloquently affirmed his judgment. When he got up into the eighties his wife came out to him in some alarm.

"Why, Reubens, man, what is the matter with you? Do come into the house."

But he didn't stop.

"Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two——"

Then she came to him, and clung tremblingly to him, but he only turned, looked into her eyes, and said:

"Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! Go into the house, old woman, or I'll bust you!"

THEY NEVER QUARRELED
ANONYMOUS

They had been married about three weeks, and had just gone to housekeeping. He was starting down town one morning, and she followed him to the door. They had their arms wrapt around each other, and she was saying:

"O Clarence, do you think it possible that the day can ever come when we will part in anger?"

"Why, no, little girl, of course not. What put that foolish idea into my little birdie's head, eh?"

"Oh, nothing, dearest. I was only thinking how perfectly dreadful it would be if one of us should speak harshly to the other."

"Well, don't think of such wicked, utterly impossible things any more. We can never, never, never quarrel."

"I know it, darling. Good-by, you dear old precious, good-by, and—oh, wait a second, Clarence; I've written a note to mamma; can't you run around to the house and leave it for her some time to-day?"

"Why, yes, dearie; if I have time."

"If you have time? O Clarence!"

"What is it, little girlie?"

"Oh, to say 'if you have time' to do almost the very first errand your little wife asks you to do."

"Well, well, I expect to be very busy to-day."

"Too busy to please me? O Clarence, you hurt my feelings so."

"Why, child, I——"

"I'm not a child, I'm a married woman, and I——"

"There, there, my pet. I——"

"No, no, Clarence, if I were your p—p—pet you'd——"

"But, Mabel, do be reasonable."

"O Clarence! don't speak to me so."

"Mable, be sensible, and——"

"Go on, Clarence, go on; break my heart."

"Stuff and nonsense."

"Oh! o—o—o—o—oh!"

"What have I said or done?"

"As if you need ask! But go—hate me if you will, Clarence, I——"

"This is rank nonsense!"

"I'll go back to mamma if you want me to. She loves me, if you don't."

"You must have a brain-storm!"

"Oh! yes, sneer at me, ridicule me, break my poor heart. Perhaps you had better strike me!"

He bangs the door, goes down the steps on the jump, and races off, muttering something about women being the "queerest creatures."

Of course, they'll make it up when he comes home, and they'll have many a little tiff in the years to come, and when they grow old they'll say:

"We've lived together forty-five years, and in all that time have never spoken a cross word to each other!"

SONG OF THE "L"
BY GRENVILLE KLEISER

Note—The New York elevated cars were so overcrowded at the rush hours of the day that passengers were obliged to ride on engines.

Jam them in, ram them in,
People still a-coming,
Slam them in, cram them in,
Keep the thing a-humming!
Millionaires and carpenters,
Office boys, stenographers,
Workingmen and fakirs,
Doctors, undertakers,
Brokers and musicians,
Writers, politicians,
Clergymen and plumbers,
Entry clerks and drummers,
Pack them in, whack them in,
People still a-coming!

Mash them in, crash them in,
Still there's more to follow,
Shoot them in, boot them in,
Don't take time to swallow!
Pretty maid and tailor-made,
Stylish maid and home-made,
Jersey maid and ready-made
House maid and old maid!
Billionaire and haughty air,
Bald head and golden hair,
Always there, never there,
Ah there and get there!
Squeeze them in, tease them in,
Still there's more to follow.
Bump them in, thump them in,
Why do people worry?
Throw them in, blow them in,
Everyone must hurry.
Take a place behind the gate,
Get your clothes prest while you wait.
Grab a seat, don't give a rap
For the lady at the strap.
If your life is spared till night
You can tell your wife all right:

How the gateman shoved them in,
Slammed them in, jammed them in,
Crammed them in, damned them in,
Blew them in, cuffed them in,
Fired them in, kicked them in,
Bumped them in, thumped them in,
Beat them in, knocked them in,
Rapped them in, squashed them in,
Rammed them in, whipped them in,
Pushed them in, banged them in,
Crusht them in, rushed them in,
Dashed them in, slashed them in,
Flung them in, jerked them in,
Tossed them in, shied them in,
Hauled them in, forced them in,
Whacked them in, crowded them in,
Prodded them in, pulled them in,
Dumped them in, drove them in,
Hammered them in, battered them in,
Pitched them in, urged them in,
Hustled them in, bustled them in,
Hurried them in, worried them in,
As if their heads were hollow!

THE VILLAGE ORACLE
BY J. L. HARBOUR

"Why, Mis' Farley, is it really you? It's been so long sence I saw you that I hardly knowed you. Come in an' set down. I was jest a-wishin' some one would come in. I've felt so kind of downsy all mornin'. I reckon like enough it is my stummick. I thought some of goin' to see old Doctor Ball about it, but, la, I know jest what he'd say. He'd look at my tongue an' say, 'Coffee,' an' look cross. He lays half the mis'ry o' the world to coffee. Says it is a rank pizen to most folks, an' that lots o' the folks now wearin' glasses wouldn't need 'em if they'd let coffee alone. Says it works on the ocular nerves an' all that, but I reckon folks here in Granby will go on drinkin' coffee jest the same.

"You won't mind if I keep right on with my work, will you, seein' that it ain't nothin' but sewin' carpet-rags? I've got to send my rags to the weaver this week, or she can't weave my carpet until after she comes home from a visit she 'lows on makin' to her sister over in Zoar. It's just a hit-er-miss strip o' carpet I'm makin' for my small south chamber. I set out to make somethin' kind o' fancy with a twisted strip an' the chain in five colors, but I found I hadn't the right kind of rags to carry it through as I wanted to; so I jest decided on a plain hit-er-miss. I don't use the south chamber no great nohow. It's the room my first husband and his first wife and sev'ral of his kin all died in; so the 'sociations ain't none too cheerin', an' I—I—s'pose you know about Lyddy Baxter losin' her husband last week? No? Well, he's went the way o' the airth, an' Lyddy wore my mournin'-veil an' gloves to the funeral. They're as good as they were the day I follered my two husbands to the grave in 'em. When a body pays two dollars an' sixty-eight cents for a mournin'-veil, it behooves 'em to take keer of it, an' not switch it out wearin' it common as Sally Dodd did hern. If a body happens to marry a second time, as I did, a mournin'-veil may come in handy, jest as mine did.

"Yes, Lyddy's husband did go off real sudden. It was this new-fashioned trouble, the appendysheetus, that tuk him off. They was jest gittin' ready to op'rate on him when he went off jest as easy as a glove. There's three thousand life-insurance; so Lyddy ain't as bereft as some would be. Now, if she'll only have good jedgement when she gits the money, an' not fool it away as Mis' Mack did her husband's life-insurance. He had only a thousand dollars, an' she put half of it on her back before three months, an' put three hundred into a pianny she couldn't play. She said a pianny give a house sech an air. I up an' told her that money would soon be all 'air' if she didn't stop foolin' it away.

"I wouldn't want it told as comin' from me, but I've heerd that it was her that put that advertisement in the paper about a widder with some means wishin' to correspond with a gentleman similarly situated with a view to matrimony. I reckon she had about fifty dollars left at that time. I tried to worm something about it out of the postmaster; for of course he'd know about her mail, but he was as close as a clam-shell. I reckon one has to be kind of discreet if one is postmaster, but he might of known that anything he told me wouldn't go no farther if he didn't want it to. I know when to speak an' when to hold my tongue if anybody in this town does.

"Did you know that Myra Dart was goin' to marry that Rylan chap? It's so. I got it from the best authority. An' she's nine years an' three months an' five days older than him. I looked it up in the town hist'ry. It's a good deal of a reesk for a man to marry a woman that's much older than he is.

"But, my land, it's a good deal of a reesk to git married at all nowadays. You never know what you're gittin' ontil it's too late to undo the matter. Seems to me there must be a screw loose somewhere, or matrimony wouldn't be the fizzle it is in so many instances. An' it's about six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other when it comes to dividin' the blame. You know my first husband was jestice o' the peace five years, an' he had considdable marryin' to do, an' I saw a good deal o' what loose idees some people had about matrimony.

"I recollect of one couple comin' in to git married one evenin'. They was both in middle life, an' them kind usually acts the silliest with the exception of a real old pair. They are the beaterees for silly actin'. Well, my husband never married any couple without makin' sure that there was no onlawful hindrances in the way o' past husbands and wives, an' so he says to the woman, 'Have you ever been married before?' An' she says jest as flippant, 'Yes, but he didn't live but three weeks; so it ain't wuth speakin' of.' Now wa'n't that scand'lous? It jest showed how lightly some folks look on the solemn ord'nance o' matrimony.

"I reckon you know that the Porters have a boy at their house? No? Well, they have. He was born at twenty minutes to one las' night, or this mornin' ruther, an' old Susan Puffer is to do the nussin'. I heard a wagon drive by here lickety-split at most midnight las' night an' I sez to myself, sez I, 'I'll bet that's Hi Porter tearin' off for old Susan Puffer', an' I got up, an' wrapped a blanket around me, an' waited for the wagon to come back; an' when it did, I called out, 'That you, Hi an' Susan?' It gives 'em a good deal of a start, but Susan called out that it was her, an' I went back to bed. Some folks would of been curious-minded enough to of went right over to the Porters', but I ain't that pryin' an' I didn't go over till after breakfast this mornin'.

"It's a real nice baby, an' it's goin' to be the livin' spit o' Hi exceptin' for its nose, which is its mother's all over; an' its mouth is the livin' counterpart o' its grandfather Porter's an' it's got the Davis ears. You know its mother was a Davis. I hope it won't have to be a bottle-riz baby. I don't care how good these infant foods may be; I don't think that a bottle-riz baby is ever the equal of one that ain't bottle-riz. The Lord must of intended mothers to nuss their babies, or He wouldn't of made 'em so they could. So I—must you be goin'? What's your hurry? I'd love to have you set all afternoon. It's so long sense you have been here, an' I do so enjoy havin' the neighbors drop in an' tell me all that's goin' on. I never go no place to hear the news. I wish you'd come in real often an' talk to me.

"Looks some like rain. I hope it'll be fair to-morrow, for I 'low on goin' over to Lucindy Baxter's to spend the day. Me an' her went over to Ware Monday, an' had a real nice all-day visit with Lucindy's married daughter. She's real nicely fixt, an' she had three kinds of cake besides cookies for tea. Seems to me one kind an' the cookies would o' been plenty. Mebbe she wanted to let us see that her husband was a good pervider.

"I went over to Zion Tuesday, an' Wednesday me an' Nancy Dodd went over to Becky Means's, and helped her quilt her album quilt; an' she had a chicken-pie for dinner that went a little ahead of anything I ever et in the way of chicken-pie. Nancy's a good cook anyhow. She gives a kind of a taste to things that only a born cook can give. I'm goin' over to the fair in Greenfield Friday; so I—do come over again soon. I git real lonesome stayin' to home close as I do, an' it's nice to have some one come in an' talk to me as you have. Good-by.

"Yes, I'll come over soon. But don't you wait for me. Come when you kin. I'm allus to home. Good-by. See my little chicks? I put a hen on thirteen eggs, an' she hatched out every blessed one of 'em. Wa'n't she smart? An she laid all the eggs herself, too. I got another hen comin' off on the tenth. Didn't the minister preach beautifully Sunday? I dunno as I ever heard a more upliftin' sermon. I see that his wife has her black silk made up that the Ladies' Society gave her on her birthday. Didn't seem to me it fit real well under the arms. Well, good-by, good-by."

By permission of the author and the Christian Endeavor World.

IF I CAN BE BY HER
BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN KING

I d-d-don't c-c-c-are how the r-r-r-obin sings,
Er how the r-r-r-ooster f-f-flaps his wings,
Er whether't sh-sh-shines, er whether't pours,
Er how high up the eagle s-s-soars,
If I can b-b-b-be by her.

I don't care if the p-p-p-people s-say
'At I'm weak-minded every w-way,
An' n-n-never had no cuh-common sense,
I'd c-c-c-cuh-climb the highest p-picket fence.
If I could b-b-b-be by her.

If I can be by h-h-her, I'll s-s-swim
The r-r-r-est of life thro' th-th-thick an' thin;
I'll throw my overcoat away,
An' s-s-s-stand out on the c-c-c-oldest day,
If I can b-b-b-be by her.

You s-s-see sh-sh-she weighs an awful pile,
B-b-b-but I d-d-d-don't care—sh-she's just my style,
An' any f-f-fool could p-p-p-lainly see
She'd look well b-b-b-by the side of me,
If I could b-b-b-be by her.

I b-b-b-braced right up, and had the s-s-s-and
To ask 'er f-f-f-father f-f-fer 'er hand;
He said: "Wh-wh-what p-p-prospects have you got?"
I said: "I gu-gu-guess I've got a lot,
If I can b-b-b-be by her."

It's all arranged f-f-fer Christmas Day,
Fer then we're goin' to r-r-r-run away,
An' then s-s-some th-th-thing that cu-cu-couldn't be
At all b-b-efore will then, you s-s-see,
B-b-b-because I'll b-b-b-be by her.

From "Ben King's Verse," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.

McCARTHY AND McMANUS
ANONYMOUS

An Irishman named Patrick McCarthy, having received an invitation to visit some friends who were stopping at one of the prominent hotels, suddenly realized that his best suit needed pressing. He sent the suit to his friend Michael McManus, the tailor, with instructions to put it in proper shape and to return it with all haste.

After waiting an hour or more, he became very impatient, and asked his wife to go for the clothes, telling her to be sure to bring them back with her. When she returned he was surprized to find she had not brought back his suit, and he said:

"Well, where are my clothes?"

"Don't ask me, don't ask me. I'm thot mad I'm almost afther killin' thot McManus!"

"Pfhot's thot? Pfhot's McManus done with thim?"

"He's done nothin' with thim, and he barely took notice of me."

"Shure woman, dear, pfhot's that you be tellin' me? Did Mac insult you,—for the love of hivins tell me quick?"

"Well, I will tell you. Whin I wint into the shop, there was McManus; instid of sittin' on the table as usual, he was sittin' forninst it, with a long shate of paper spread out, and he was a-writin' and a-writin' and a-writin'. Says I, 'Mr. McManus.' No answer. Again I says, 'Mr. McManus.' Still no answer. Says I, 'Look here, Mr. McManus, pfhot do you mean by kapin' my husband waitin' for his clothes?—have you got thim done?' Without raisin' his head he says, 'No, I haven't,' and wint on writin' and writin'. Says I, 'He's waitin' for thim.' Says he, 'Let him wait.' Says I, 'He won't.' Says he, 'He'll have to.' Says I, 'Pfhot do you mean by writin' thot long document, knowin' well thot my husband is waitin' for his clothes?' Says he, 'Well, if you must know, it's important business. Do you see thot list?' pointin' to a long list of names. 'Well,' says he, 'thot's a list of all the min thot I can lick in this neighborhood.' Says I, 'Is thot so?' Says he, 'Yes, thot is so.' Says I, 'Mr. McManus, have you got my husband's name on thot list?' Says he, takin' up the list and holdin' it near my face, 'Look at thot,—the very first name on the list!' and I was thot mad I couldn't talk."

"Do you mean to tell me thot he had my name on thot list?"

"I do, and the very first one,—on the very top."

"Well, wait till I go over and see McManus."

A few minutes later Mr. McCarthy entered the shop of Mr. McManus, and said,

"Is McManus here?"

McManus replied, "He is and he's very busy."

"Is thot so?"

"Yes, thot is so."

"Look here, McManus, pfhot makes you so busy?"

"Oh, I'm just doin' a little writin'."

"Well, what is it you're writin'?"

"Well, I'll tell you. I'm makin' out a list of all the min thot I can lick in this neighborhood, and a moighty big list it is. Just look at thot."

"Say Mac, is my name on thot list?"

"Is Pat McCarthy's name on this list? Well, you can just bet your life it is, and it's the very first one!"

"Is thot so, McManus?"

"Yes, thot's so."

McCarthy, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, said:

"Look here, McManus, I can lick you."

"Did you say you thought you could lick me?"

"I said I can lick you."

"You say you can lick me?"

"Yes, thot's what I said."

"All right. Off goes your name from the list."

AND SHE CRIED
BY MINNA IRVING

Miss Muriel Million was sitting alone,
With a very disconsolate air;
Her fluffy blue tea-gown was fastened awry,
And frowsy and rumpled her hair.
"Oh, what is the matter?" I said in alarm,
"I beg you in me to confide."
But she buried her face in her 'kerchief of lace,
And she cried, and she cried, and she cried.

"Come out for a spin in the automobile,
The motor-boat waits at the pier;
Or let's take a drive in the sunshiny park,
Or a canter on horseback, my dear."
T'was thus that I coaxed her in lover-like tones,
As I tenderly knelt at her side,
But refusing all comfort she pushed me aside,
While she cried, and she cried, and she cried.

"Pray whisper, my darling, this terrible wo,
You know I would love you the same,
If the millions of papa vanish in smoke
And you hadn't a cent to your name,
If you came to the church in a garment of rags
I would wed you with rapturous pride."
She nestled her cheek to my shoulder at this,
Tho she cried, and she cried, and she cried.

"You know," she exclaimed in a piteous wail,
"That love of a hat that I wore?—
The one with pink roses and chiffon behind,
And a fluffy pink feather before?—
I paid Madame Modeste a hundred for that,
And our parlor-maid, Flora McBride,
Has got one just like it for three twenty-five!"
And she cried, and she cried, and she cried.

By permission of the author and of the New York Herald.

DOT LEEDLE BOY
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Ot's a leedle Gristmas story
Dot I told der leedle folks—
Und I vant you stop dot laughin'
Und grackin' funny jokes!—
So help me Peter-Moses!
Ot's no time for monkeyshine,
Ober I vas told you somedings
Of dot leedle boy of mine!

Ot vas von cold vinter vedder,
Ven the snow was all about—
Dot you have to chop der hatchet
Eef you got der sauerkraut!
Und der cheekens on der hind leg
Vas standin' in der shine,
Der sun shmile out dot morning
On dot leedle boy of mine.

He vas yoost a leedle baby,
Not bigger as a doll
Dot time I got acquaintet—
Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!—
I grackys! dot's der moosie
Ot make me feel so fine
Ven first I vas been marriet—
Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!

He look' yoost like his fader!—
So, ven der vimmen said,
"Vot a purty leedle baby!"
Katrina shake her head—
I dink she must 'a' notice
Dot der baby vas a-gryin',
Und she cover up der blankets
Of dot leedle boy of mine.

Vell, ven he vas got bigger,
Dot he grawl und bump his nose,
Und make der table over,
Und molasses on his glothes—
Dot make 'im all der sweeter,—
So I say to my Katrina:
"Better you vas quit a-sphankin'
Dot leedle boy of mine!"

I vish you could 'a' seen id—
Ven he glimb up on der chair
Und scmash der lookin'-glasses
Ven he try to comb his hair
Mit a hammer!—Und Katrina
Say, "Dot's an ugly sign!"
But I laugh und vink my fingers
At dot leedle boy of mine.

But vonce, dot vinter morning,
He shlip out in der snow
Mitout no stockin's on 'im—
He say he "vant to go
Und fly some mit der birdies!"
Und ve give 'im medi-cine
Ven he catch der "parrygoric"—
Dot leedle boy of mine!

Und so I set und nurse 'im,
Vile der Gristmas vas come roun',
Und I told 'im 'bout "Kriss Kringle,"
How he come der chimbly down;
Und I ask 'im if he love 'im
Eef he bring 'im someding fine?
"Nicht besser as mein fader,"
Say dot leedle boy of mine.

Und he put his arms aroun' me
Und hug so close und tight,
I hear der glock a-tickin'
All der balance of der night!—
Someding make me feel so funny
Ven I say to my Katrina,
"Let us go und fill der stockin's,
Of dot leedle boy of mine."

Vell—ve buyed a leedle horses
Dot you pull 'im mit a shtring,
Und a little fancy jay-bird—
Eef you vant to hear 'im sing
You took 'im by der topknot
Und yoost blow in behine—
Und dot make much spectahkle
For dot leedle boy of mine.

Und gandies, nuts und raisins—
Und I buy a leedle drum
Dot I vant to hear 'im rattle
Ven der Gristmas morning come!
Und a leedle shmall tin rooster
Dot vould crow so loud und fine
Ven he squeeze 'im in der morning,
Dot leedle boy of mine.

Und—vile ve vas a-fixin'—
Dot leedle boy vake out!
I t'ought he been a-dreamin'
"Kriss Kringle" vas about,—
For he say—"Dot's him!—I see 'im
Mit der shtars dot make der shine!"
Und he yoost keep on a-cryin'—
Dot leedle boy of mine,—

Und gettin' vorse und vorser—
Und tumble on der bed!
So—ven der doctor seen id,
He kindo shake his head,
Und veel his pulse—und visper:
"Der boy is a-dyin'."
You dink I could believe id?
Dot leedle boy of mine?

I told you, friends—dot's someding,
Der last time dot he spheak
Und say, "Goot-by, Kriss Kringle!"
—Dot make me feel so veak
I yoost kneel down und drimble,
Und bur-sed out a-cryin',
"Mein Gott, Mein Gott in Himmel!—
Dot leedle boy of mine!"

Der sun don't shine dot Gristmas!
... Eef dot leedle boy vould liff'd—
No deefer-en'! for heaven vas
His leedle Gristmas gift!...
Und der rooster, und der gandy,
Und me—und my Katrina—
Und der jay-bird—is a-vatin'
For dot leedle boy of mine.

From "Green Fields and Running Brooks," copyright 1892. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

MR. DOOLEY ON THE GRIP
BY FINLAY PETER DUNNE

Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! I feels as if a dhray had run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not? Well, ye're lucky. Ye're a lucky man.

"I wint to MCGuire's wake las' week. They gave him a dacint sind-off. No porther. An' himself looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver Gavin layed out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as proud iv McGuire as if he owned him. Fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan iv thim cards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinity-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me cards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.

"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lastewise, it is me own opinion iv it, tho th' docthor said I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' MCGuires is a clane fam'ly; but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. 'What sort if bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Ye have Mickrobes in ye're lungs,' he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in, an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye're system does be full if thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'marchin' an' counter-marchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to the saints!' says I. 'Had I better swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an' lave thim alone,' he says; 'whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'

"So I wint to bed, an' waited while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Mondah all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wurruds come up between th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wexford; an' th' whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a tobaggan slide iv me spine; an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wurkin' f' th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.

"They was tired out th' nex' day till about five o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms; an' I knew there was goin' to be doin's in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' ev'nin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At six o'clock they begin to move fr'm me shins to me throat. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands, an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. A trolley line was started up me back, an iv'ry car run into a wagon-load if scrap iron at th' base if me skull.

"Th' Mickrobes in me head must 've done thimselves proud. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables; an' in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin matches in me forehead; but they all stopt, to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv men, women, an childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brick-bats, flyin' in th' air! How many iv thim was kilt I niver knew; f'r I wint as daft as a hen, an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign Club that'd sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day-old baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle, save an' excipt thim West if Ireland Fenians, th' Mickrobes."

By permission of Small, Maynard & Company.

A RAINY DAY EPISODE
ANONYMOUS

One morning recently as I was about to start from my home, I noticed that it was raining very hard outside, and as I turned to the rack to get an umbrella I was surprized to find that out of five umbrellas there was not one in the lot I could use. On the impulse of the moment I decided to take the whole five down town to the umbrella hospital and have them all repaired at once.

Just as I started from the door my wife asked me to be sure and bring her umbrella back as she wanted to use it that evening. This imprest the subject of umbrellas very vividly on my mind, so I did not fail to leave the five umbrellas to be repaired, stating I would call for them on my way home in the evening.

When I went to lunch at noon it was still raining very hard, but as I had no umbrella this simply imprest the subject on my mind. I went to a nearby restaurant, sat down at a table, and had been there only a few minutes when a young lady came in and sat down at the same table with me. I was first to finish, however, and getting up I absent-mindedly picked up her umbrella and started for the door. She called out to me and reminded me that I had her umbrella, whereupon I returned it to her with much embarrassment and many apologies.

This incident served to impress the subject more deeply on my mind, so on my way home in the evening I called for my umbrellas, bought a newspaper, and boarded a street-car. I was deeply engrossed in my newspaper, having placed the five umbrellas alongside of me in the car, but all at once I had a peculiar feeling of someone staring at me. Suddenly I looked up from my paper, and was surprized to see sitting directly opposite me the same young woman I had met in the restaurant! She had a broad smile on her face, and looking straight into my eyes she said knowingly: "You've had a successful day, to-day, haven't you?"

I KNEW HE WOULD COME IF I WAITED
BY HORACE G. WILLIAMSON

I knew he would come if I waited,
Tho waiting, it caused me despair;
And I sat by the window and listened
To hear his first step on the stair:
For I knew he would come if I waited,
But anxiously I paced 'round the floor;
Oh, to see his own form on the threshold
As I hastened to open the door.
Would he come? But how dare I question
His faithfulness to his own word;
Would he dare not come at my calling?
Or was that his dear step that I heard?
Oh, I rush to the door for to meet him,
For to welcome him here after all,
For I knew he would come if I waited,
He would come to answer my call.
Yes, yes, it is he on the pavement,
He's coming, he's ringing the bell,
And my heart beats wild with rapture
Of a joy which I never can tell,
For I knew he would come if I waited,
Yes, he'd come at my call; joy, O joy,
What happiness it is to welcome
Just to welcome: "the messenger boy."

LOVE'S MOODS AND SENSES
ANONYMOUS

Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught,
And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught!
Tho his enemies called him a screecher who scraught.

His heart when he saw her kept sinking, and sunk,
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking, and wunk;
While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk.

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed,
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed,
And what he was longing to do then he doed.

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke,
To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke;
So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode,
They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode,
And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.

Then, "homeward," he said, "let us drive," and they drove,
And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove;
For whatever he couldn't contrive she controve.

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole:
At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole,
And said, "I feel better than ever I fole."

So they to each other kept clinging and clung;
While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung;
And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung:

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught—
That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught—
Was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she scraught.

And Charley's warm love began freezing, and froze,
While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze
The girl he had wished to be squeezing, and squoze.

"Wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left,
"How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?"
And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH
BY THOMAS HOOD

Even is come; and from the dark park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun—one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,—
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright, white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads.
And sleepers waking, grumble: "Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—
But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-prest,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's banns
And his, from Rev. Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

KATIE'S ANSWER
ANONYMOUS

Och, Katie's a rogue, it is thrue,
But her eyes, like the sky, are so blue,
An' her dimples so swate,
An' her ankles so nate,
She dazed, an' she bothered me, too—

Till one mornin' we wint for a ride,
Whin, demure as a bride, by my side,
The darlint, she sat,
With the wickedest hat,
'Neath a purty girl's chin iver tied.

An' my heart, arrah, thin how it bate
For my Kate looked so temptin' an' swate,
Wid cheeks like the roses,
An' all the red posies,
That grow in her garden so nate.

But I sat just as mute as the dead,
Till she said, wid a toss of the head,
"If I'd known that to-day
You'd have nothing to say,
I'd have gone wid my cousin instead."

Thin I felt myself grow very bowld,
For I knew she'd not scold if I towld
Uv the love in my heart,
That would never depart,
Tho I lived to be wrinkled an' owld.

An' I said, "If I dared to do so,
I'd lit go uv the baste, an' I'd throw
Both arms 'round yer waist,
An' be stalin' a taste
Uv them lips that are coaxin' me so."

Then she blushed a more illegent red,
As she said, widout raisin' her head,
An' her eyes lookin' down
'Neath her lashes so brown,
"Would ye like me to drive, Misther Ted?"

"'SPÄCIALLY JIM"
ANONYMOUS

I wus mighty good-lookin' when I was young,
Peert an' black-eyed an' slim,
With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights,
'Späcially Jim!

The likeliest one of 'em all was he,
Chipper an' han'som' an' trim,
But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd,
'Späcially Jim!

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men,
An' I wouldn't take stock in him!
But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk,
'Späcially Jim!

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun'
'Späcially Jim!
I made up my mind I'd settle down
An' take up with him.

So we was married one Sunday in church,
'Twas crowded full to the brim;
'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all,
'Späcially Jim.

AGNES, I LOVE THEE!
ANONYMOUS

I stood upon the ocean's briny shore;
And, with a fragile reed, I wrote
Upon the sand—"Agnes, I love thee!"
The mad waves rolled by, and blotted out
The fair impression.
Frail reed! cruel wave! treacherous sand!
I'll trust ye no more;
But, with giant hand, I'll pluck
From Norway's frozen shore
Her tallest pine, and dip its top
Into the crater of Vesuvius,
And upon the high and burnished heavens
I'll write,—"Agnes, I love thee!"—
And I would like to see any
Dog-goned wave wash that out!

THE GORILLA
ANONYMOUS

"O mighty ape!
Half beast, half man,
Thy uncouth shape
Betrays a plan
The gulf of Being at a bound to span.
Thou art the link between ourselves and brutes,
Lifting the lower to a higher plane;
Thy human face all cavilers refutes,
Who sneer at Darwin as a dreamer vain.
How camest thou beneath this canvas tent?
Within this cage? behind these iron bars?
Thou, whose young days in tropic lands were spent,
With strange companions, under foreign stars?
Art thou not lonely? What is life to thee
Thus mewed in prison, innocent of crime,
Become a spectacle for crowds to see,
And reckless boys to jeer at all the time?
Hast thou no feelings such as we possess?
Art thou devoid of any sense of shame?
Rise up, O brother, and thy wrongs redress;
Rise in thy might, and be no longer tame!"

I paused in my apostrophe. The animal arose;
He seized the bars that penned him in: my blood in terror froze.
He shook the cage from side to side; the frightened people fled;
Then, in a tone of savage wrath, the horrid monster said:
"I'm hired by the wake to wear the dhirty craythur's shkin;
I came from Tipperary, and me name is Micky Flynn!"

BANGING A SENSATIONAL NOVELIST
ANONYMOUS

The other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella, and leading a small urchin, called at the office of a New York boys' story paper.

"Is this the place where they fight Indians?" she inquired of the young man in charge. "Is this the locality where the brave boy charges up the canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky redskin?" and she jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella down on the desk.

"We publish stories for boys, and——"

"I want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad springs upon his fiery mustang, and, darting through the circle of thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive's cords and bears him away before the wondering Indians have recovered from their astonishment? That's the information I'm after. I want to know if that sort of thing is perpetrated here!" and she swung the umbrella around her head.

"I don't remember those specific facts, but——"

"I want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy jumps on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim picks off one by one the bloodthirsty pursuers who bite the dust at every crack of the faithful rifle! I'm looking for the place where that sort of thing happens!" and this time she brought the unlucky man a tremendous whack across the back.

"I think——"

"I'm in search of the shop in which the boy road-agent holds the quivering stage-driver powerless with his glittering eye, while he robs the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and tried experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with a gallantry of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous nature! I'm looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!"

"Upon my word, madam, I——"

"I want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts of the Sierras! Show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the prairie! Point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the Spanish main!" and with each demand she brought her umbrella down on the young man's head until he jumped over the desk and sought safety in a neighboring canyon.

"I'll teach 'em!" she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and leading him off. "I'll teach 'em to make it good or dance. Want to go fight Indians any more (twisting the boy's ear)? Want to stand proudly upon the pinnacle of the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the bleeding bodies of uncounted slain? Propose to spring upon the taffrail and with a ringing word of command send a broadside into the richly-laden galley, and then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in the cabin, that she may become your bride? Eh? Going to do it any more?"

The boy exprest his permanent abandonment of all the glories enumerated.

"Then come along," said she, taking him by the collar. "Let me catch you around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you'll think the leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire has swept with a ferocious roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged under your jacket to stay!"

HOPKINS' LAST MOMENTS
ANONYMOUS

Nurses in hospitals are inclined to lay too much stress on the advantages received by the patients and their duty of thankfulness, but it is the poor soldier who suffers most from always having his cause to be grateful flung in his teeth. The following true story took place between the chaplain and the hospital orderly:

Chaplain—"So poor Hopkins is dead. I should like to have spoken to him once more and soothed his last moments. Why didn't you call me?"

Hospital Orderly—"I didn't think you ought to be disturbed for 'Opkins, sir; so I just soothed him as best I could myself."

Chaplain—"Why, what did you say to him?"

Orderly—"I sez, ''Opkins, you're mortal bad.'"

"'I am,' sez 'e."

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'I don't think you'll get better.'"

"'No,' sez 'e."

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'you're going fast.'"

"'Yes,' sez 'e."

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'I don't think you can 'ope to go to 'eaven.'"

"'I don't think I can,' sez 'e."

"'Well, then, 'Opkins,' sez I, 'you'll go to 'ell.'"

"'I suppose so,' sez 'e,"

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'you ought to be wery grateful as there's a place perwided for you, and that you've got somewhere to go.' And I think 'e 'eard, sir, for 'e just gave a little groan, turned over, and then 'e died."

THE FAIRIES' TEA
ANONYMOUS

Five little fairies went out to take tea,
Under the shade of a juniper tree.
Each had a cup from an acorn cut,
And a plate from the rind of a hickory nut.

The table was spread with a cloth all of lace,
Woven by spiders the banquet to grace.
Oh, what good things they all had to eat!—
Slices of strawberry,—my what a treat!

Honey the sweetest the wild bee could hive,
And a humming-bird's egg for each of the five.
Then they drank their host's health in their favorite drink,
Which was,—now what was it? Can anyone think?

Why the dew-drop that comes from the heart of the rose
Is the drink of the fairies, as everyone knows.

COUNTING EGGS
ANONYMOUS

Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopt in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchase.

"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry."

"Are they fresh?"

"Fresh? Yes, indeed! I guantees 'em, an'—an'—de hen guantees 'em."

"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket."

"All right, mum; (he counts) one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You can rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin' on de school? He must be mos' grown."

"Yes, Uncle Moses; he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston."

"Why, how ole am de boy?"

"He is eighteen."

"You don't tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already! Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five. And how's your gal comin' on? She was most growed up de last time I seed her."

"She is married and living in Dallas."

"Wall, I declar'; how time scoots away! And you say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be just about——"

"Thirty-three."

"Am dat so? (Counting.) Firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don't look more den forty years old yerseff."

"Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old——"

"Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six—I want you to pay 'tenshun when I count de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah. Whew! Dis am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year when I feels I'se gettin' ole myself; I ain't long fur dis world. You comes from an ole family. When your fadder died he was sebenty years ole."

"Seventy-two."

"Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine. And your mudder? She was one ob de noblest-lookin' ladies I eber see. You remind me ob her so much! She libed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died."

"No, Uncle Moses; she was only ninety-six when she died."

"Den she wan't no chicken when she died, I know dat. Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight—dar, one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs—jess nine dozen; and here am one moah egg in case I have discounted myself."

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband:

"I am afraid that we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there, and heard Moses count them myself, and there were nine dozen."

THE OATMOBILE
ANONYMOUS

Ay yust bane oop by Minnesote
To sa my Onkle Yohn.
Ay stop me by St. Paul awhile
Yust for a little fun;
An' dere Ay saw one oatmobile—
Dat bane de name you call;
Und yo could tak a ride on heem
Mit out some horse at all.

Dat bane a purty nice machine
Wit rubber tires an tings;
Yust sit heem lik a vagon on
An' he run yust lik mit vings.
Ay ask dot man vot make heem go?
He say, "My hade got vheels."
He say, "He feed heem plenty oat
An' call heem Oat-mo-bile."

Ay say, "Ay know Ay bane grane Sweede
Yust come from Nord Dakote,
But Ay dou belave he make heem go
By feedin' vagin oat."
Ay say to heem, "Look here! Ay bane
Some time in Missoure,
Ay know Ay'm grane, but yust de same
You bet me life, 'show me!'"

Dat feller lafe an' shake his head
An' say, "Ay bane good show myself,"
Ay say, "Ay tink Ay punch your head
An' lay you on de shelf."
Ay pick me oop a little stick
Bane layin' on de seat
An bet me life, dot Oat-mo-bile
Yust started oop de street.

Ay holler, "Wo-o-o!" but he don' stop
An' den you bet my life
Ay wish Ay bane by Nord Dakote,
At home mit Ann, my vife,
Dat Oat-mo-bile yust boomped me
Oop de side valk on an' stopt;
An' bucked me thro' de window
Of one dem butcher-shop.

He split me nose bay my face oop
He smash me almost dead;
He punch de inside of me mouth
All outside of me hade.
He hurt me eye so bad in one
Ay'm blin' yust like a beetle.
In oder one, Ay can see some
But only just a little.

De las Ay see of dat machine
He bane a buckin' still.
Ay tink he feed too many oat
Tod at old Oat-mo-bile.
Ay tell my wife, if I get vell
You bet I vill not monkey
Some anoder time with
Any Oat-mo-bile.

ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!
I'm got earache, an' ma can't make it quit a-tall;
An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball
An' puncture it; an' Sis she take
An' poke my knife down through the stable-floor
An' loozed it,—blame it all!
But I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!

An' Aunt Mame wrote she's comin' an' she can't,
Folks is come there!—An' I don't care if she is my aunt!
An' my eyes stings; an' I'm
Ist coughin' all the time,
An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore,
Grampa felt where, an' he
Says, "Maybe it's pleurasy!"
But I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!

An' I clumbed up an' felled off the fence,
An' Herbert he ist laugh at me!
An' my fi' cents,
It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore
Purt night my fum-nail off a-tryin' to git
It out—nen smash it! An' it's in there yet!
But I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more!

Oo! I'm so wicked! an' my breath's so hot,
Ist like I run an' don't rest none
But ist run on when I ought to not;
Yes, an' my chin
An' lips all warpy, an' teeth's so fast,
An's a place in my throat I can't swaller past,—
An' they all hurt so!
An' oh, my oh!
I'm a-startin' ag'in,—
I'm a-startin' ag'in, but I won't fer shore!
I ist ain't a-goin to cry no more, no more!

By permission from "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903, the Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, Ind.

PROOF POSITIVE
ANONYMOUS

I stept into my room one day
And saw some children there at play.
I sought my little girl and found her
With half a dozen youngsters round her;
And from the way she slapped her rule,
I knew that they were "playing school."
I gave my little girl a kiss—
A pleasure that I never miss.
A murmur through the schoolroom ran,
A smile pervaded every feature,
"He must be a committeeman!"
They loud exclaimed. "He kissed the teacher!"

THE IRISH PHILOSOPHER
ANONYMOUS

Ladies and Gintlemen:—I see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before me, that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin' a seat myself.

You don't know me, I'm thinkin,' or some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore this.

I'm a walkin' pedestrian, a traveling philosopher; Terry O'Mulligan's me name. I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before me was raised and bred. Oh, philosophy is a foine study. I don't know anything about it, but it's a foine study. Before I kim over I attinded an important meetin' of philosophers in Dublin, and the discussin' and talkin' you'd hear there about the world 'ud warm the very heart of Socrates or Aristotle himself. Well, there was a great many imminent and learned min there at the meetin,' and I was there, too; and while we was in the very thickest of a heated argument a man comes up to me, and says he, "Do you know what we're talkin' about?" "I do," says I, "but I don't understand yees." "Could you explain the sun's motion round the earth?" says he. "I could," says I; "but I'd not know could you understand me or not." "Well," says he, "we'll see," says he.

Sure'n I didn't know anything how to get out of it then; so I piled in, for, says I to meself, never let on to anyone that you don't know anything, but make them believe that you do know all about it. So, says I to him, takin' up me shillalah this way (holding up a very crooked stick horizontally): "We will take that for the straight line of the earth's equator." How's that for gehoggraphy? (To the audience.) Oh, that was straight till the other day I bent it in an argument.

"Very good" says he. "Well," says I, "now the sun rises in the east." (Placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the stick.) Well, he couldn't deny that; "and," says I, "he-he-he-rises in the mornin'." No more could he deny that. "Very early," says I; "and when he gets up he

"'Darts his rosy beams
Through the mornin' gleams.'"

Do you moine the poetry there? (To the audience, with a smile.) "And he keeps on risin' an' risin' till he reaches his meridan." "What's that?" says he. "His dinner-toime," says I. "Sure'n that's my Latin for dinner-time. And when he gets his dinner

"'He sinks to rest
Behind the glorious hills of the west.'"

Oh, begorra, there's more poetry. I feel it croppin' out all over me.

"There," says I, well satisfied with mesilf, "will that do for ye?"

"You haven't got done with him," says he.

"Done with him?" says I, kinder mad-like. "What more do you want me to do with him? Didn't I bring him from the east to the west? What more do you want?" "Oh," says he, "you have to have him back agin in the east the next mornin'!"

By Saint Patrick, and wasn't I near betrayin' me ignorance. Sure'n I thought there was a large family of suns, and they riz one after the other; but I gathered meself quick, and says I to him, "Well," says I, "I'm surprized you ax me that simple question. I thought any man 'ud know" says I, "when the sun sinks to rest in the west that er—when the sun——" says I. "You said that before" says he. "Well, I want to impress it strongly upon you," says I. "When the sun sinks to rest behind the glorious hills of the east—no, west—why, he—why, he waits till it grows very dark and then he goes back in the noight-toime!"

BELAGCHOLLY DAYS
ANONYMOUS

Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blast
Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,
Eved October's suddy days are past—
Add Subber's gawd!

I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg
That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust
That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg—
Because I bust.

Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,
To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;
Farewell to all articulated words
I faid would speak.

Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward,
Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you;
With sorrowing heart I, wretched add forlord,
Bid you—achew!!!

A PANTOMIME SPEECH
ANONYMOUS

Have you ever realized what a funny thing it is to see a lot of people talking and gesticulating and not hear a single sound from them? The next time you are in a crowded dining-room, close your ears with your hands, and you will be quickly converted to the Darwinian theory.

This was forcibly imprest upon my mind at a political gathering. The hall was very large, but was crowded to the doors, so that when I reached there I was obliged to stand outside and on my toes to see the speakers. Please remember that altho I could in this way distinctly see the speakers, I was too far away to hear the slightest sound. It was simply a pantomime performance to me, and I shall try to give you a faithful representation of just what I saw.

Simply say: "The Chairman." The rest is pantomime. Seat yourself as an old man, put your right hand behind your ear as if listening to a side remark. Repeat to the left. Evidently someone has told you it is time to begin. Take out your watch and compare it with the clock on the wall behind you. Bring out an imaginary pair of spectacles, clean them with your handkerchief, and as you put them on your nose draw down your face as old men do. Get up with seeming difficulty. The business here is ad lib. Point to the speaker of the evening, who is supposed to be sitting at your right. By silent movements of the lips seem to introduce him to the audience. Then suddenly remember that you have something else to say just as you are about to sit down. Repeat this two or three times. Then sit down at last with much difficulty.

Then say aloud: "The Speaker." Impersonate him as assuming a grandiloquent air. While he speaks in pantomime he rises on his toes and makes numerous gestures. He pounds fist on table. Someone evidently interrupts him from the audience. He looks in that direction and then replies. He seems to say to the man to come up on the platform or else get out of the hall. He talks for some time as if in argument, then dodges as if something has been thrown at him. Two or three times he has to dodge in this way and then something seems to have struck him in the face. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes off face and coat. Then things are thrown at him from right and left, while he continues to dodge. At last they come so thick that he rushes off the platform in great alarm.

THE ORIGINAL LAMB
ANONYMOUS

Oh, Mary had a little lamb, regarding whose cuticular
The fluff exterior was white and kinked in each particular.
On each occasion when the lass was seen perambulating,
The little quadruped likewise was there a gallivating.

One day it did accompany her to the knowledge dispensary,
Which to every rule and precedent was recklessly contrary.
Immediately whereupon the pedagog superior,
Exasperated, did eject the lamb from the interior.

Then Mary, on beholding such performance arbitrary,
Suffused her eyes with saline drops from glands called lachrymary,
And all the pupils grew thereat tumultuously hilarious,
And speculated on the case with wild conjectures various.

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" the scholars asked the teacher.
He paused a moment, then he tried to diagnose the creature.
"Oh, pecus amorem Mary habit omnia temporum."
"Thanks, teacher dear," the scholars cried, and awe crept darkly o'er 'em.

WHEN PA WAS A BOY
BY S. E. KISER

I wish 'at I'd of been here when
My paw he was a boy;
They must of been excitement then—
When my paw was a boy.
In school he always took the prize,
He used to lick boys twice his size—
I bet folks all had bulgin' eyes
When my paw was a boy!

There was a lot of wonders done
When my paw was a boy;
How grandpa must have loved his son,
When my paw was a boy!
He'd git the coal and chop the wood,
And think up every way he could
To always just be sweet and good—
When my paw was a boy!

Then everything was in its place,
When my paw was a boy;
How he could rassle, jump and race,
When my paw was a boy!
He never, never disobeyed;
He beat in every game he played—
Gee! What a record there was made!
When my paw was a boy!

I wish 'at of been here when
My paw was a boy;
They'll never be his like agen—
Paw was the moddle boy.
But still last night I heard my maw
Raise up her voice and call my paw
The biggest goose she ever saw—
He ought have stayed a boy.

By permission of Messrs. Forbes & Company, Chicago.

THE FRECKLED-FACED GIRL
(She entertains a visitor while her mother is dressing)
ANONYMOUS

"Ma's up-stairs changing her dress," said the freckled-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet-strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.

"Oh! your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. "Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony."

"Oh! but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all drest up in her new brown silk, 'cause she expected Miss Diamond to-day. Miss Diamond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma don't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming, she said, 'The dickens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for more money to buy hymn-books to send to 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen!"

"Why, you wicked little girl, why do you want a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.

"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick—you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West, and he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she said she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a new muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you ought to go to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natifs'd be sorry they was such sinners if anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you 'less 'twas a blind one, and you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes pa and ma die laughing sometimes."

"Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved man, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a bad example for little girls like you."

"Oh! I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't 'round. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your good clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do."

Just then the freckled-faced little girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek, and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma can't understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Diamond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip.

WILLIE
BY MAX EHRMANN

A little boy went forth to school
One day without his chum.
The teacher said, "Why, you're alone!
Why doesn't Willie come?"
"O Willie!" sobbed the little boy,—
"There ain't no Willie now."
"What do you mean?" the teacher asked,
With puzzled, knitted brow.
"Please, sir," the little boy replied,
"We made a bet fur fun,—
Which one could lean the farthest out
Our attic,—Willie won."

AMATEUR NIGHT
ANONYMOUS

It was one of those little evening entertainments where everyone talks at once, where everyone asks questions and does not wait for an answer. Mrs. Fitzgibbon, the hostess, finally broke into the babble:

"Sh! I want you all to be very quiet. Mr. Chooker—Mr. Chooker,—please don't talk,—don't talk, please,—Mr. Chooker is very excitable. Chooker,—yes, he is one of the Chookers. Young people come off the stairs. Sh! I have very great pleasure in introducing to you Mr. Chooker."

Mr. Chooker came forward with a malicious look, which seemed to say, "You all seem to be very happy,—very jolly,—and enjoying yourselves. Just wait a bit. I am about to recite a little poem of my own entitled, 'The Triple Suicide!'"

Then came the boy of the family, a kind of child prodigy, who, after giving a low and jerky bow, recited as follows: (Here impersonate a boy in awkward style.)

"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's
tears;—there was dearth of woman's tears." (Stops.)

"The women were crying, you know. Some were crying and others were weeping. Those that weren't weeping were crying!" (Pauses, then bows low, and begins again.)

"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away—
while his life-blood ebbed away,—while his life-blood ebbed away
——"

"His blood was flowing along, you know. There was blood here and there. There was blood spattered over everything, and——" (Pauses long, bows low, and begins again with great determination and in loud voice.)

"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,—
ebbed away,—ebbed away (gradually begins to cry),—ebbed away (as
if speaking to someone at the side)—eh?" (Exits slowly with hands
at eyes silently weeping.)

The young miss of the family, recently graduated, next gave an original poem entitled "The Hen," as follows:

"Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the hen is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

"Life is real, life is earnest,
And the shell is not its pen,
Egg thou wert and egg remainest,
Was not spoken of the hen.

"In the world's broad field of battle,
In the great barnyard of life,
Be not like those lazy cattle,
Be a rooster in the strife.

"Lives of roosters all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And when roasted leave behind us
Hen-tracks on the sands of time.

"Hen-tracks that perhaps another chicken
Drooping idly in the rain,
Some forlorn and henpecked brother,
When he sees shall crow again."

The gem of the evening, however, was a recitation given in fine style by Mr. Chillingworth Chubb. He had rather a husky voice and a wooden arm. His memory, moreover, was defective. The effect of his wooden arm, which was made to perform the various actions of a real one, was highly amusing. (Here the reciter may use "Excelsior," "The Speech of Mark Antony," or some similar selection. The left arm represents the wooden one. The hand should wear a right-hand, white kid glove, put on wrong way round with the finger-tips screwed into points. The arm should be assisted in all its movements by the right one. It should be made to move in a jerky and unnatural manner at all its joints. A violent push at the elbow raises it suddenly aloft, and it is brought again to the side by a tremendous slap from the right hand. Finally, the arm appears to get out of order, and moves violently in all directions, until at last the right hand, after vainly trying to reach it, pins it down to a table or to some other object. This imitation requires considerable practise, but when properly done never fails to send an audience into fits of laughter.)

BOUNDING THE UNITED STATES
BY JOHN FISKE

Among the legends of our late Civil War there is a story of a dinner-party, given by the Americans residing in Paris, at which were propounded sundry toasts concerning not so much the past and present as the expected glories of the American nation. In the general character of these toasts, geographical considerations were very prominent, and the principal fact which seemed to occupy the minds of the speakers was the unprecedented bigness of our country.

"Here's to the United States!" said the first speaker,—"bounded on the north by British America, on the south by the Gulf of Mexico, on the east by the Atlantic Ocean, and on the west by the Pacific Ocean!" "But," said the second speaker, "this is far too limited a view of the subject, and, in assigning our boundaries, we must look to the great and glorious future, which is prescribed for us by the manifest destiny of the Anglo-Saxon race. Here's to the United States!—bounded on the north by the North Pole, on the east by the rising, and on the west by the setting, sun!"

Emphatic applause greeted the aspiring prophecy. But here arose the third speaker, a very serious gentleman, from the far West. "If we are going," said this truly patriotic gentleman, "to lessen the historic past and present, and take our manifest destiny into account, why restrict ourselves within the narrow limits assigned by our fellow countryman who has just sat down? I give you the United States!—bounded on the north by the Aurora Borealis, on the south by the precession of the equinoxes, on the east by the primeval chaos, and on the west by the Day of Judgment!"

DER DOG UND DER LOBSTER
ANONYMOUS

Dot dog, he vas dot kind of dog
Vot ketch dot ret so sly,
Und squeeze him mit his leedle teeth,
Und den dot ret vas die.

Dot dog, he vas onquisitive
Vereffer he vas go,
Und like dot voman, all der time,
Someding he vants to know.

Von day, all by dot market stand,
Vere fish und clams dey sell,
Dot dog vas poke his nose aboud
Und find out vot he smell.

Dot lobster, he vas dook to snooze
Mit vone eye open vide,
Und ven dot dog vas come along,
Dot lobster he vas spied.

Dot dog, he smell him mit his noze
Und scratch him mit his paws,
Und push dot lobster all aboud,
Und vonder vat he vas.

Und den dot lobster, he voke up,
Und crawl yoost like dot snail,
Und make vide open ov his claws,
Und grab dot doggie's tail.

Und den so quick as neffer vas,
Dot cry vent to der sky,
Und like dot swallows vot dey sing,
Dot dog vas homevard fly.

Yoost like dot thunderbolt he vent—
Der sight vas awful grand,
Und every street dot dog vas turn,
Down vent dot apple-stand.

Der children cry, der vimmin scream,
Der mens fell on der ground,
Und dot boliceman mit his club
Vas novare to pe found.

I make dot run, und call dot dog,
Und vistle awful kind;
Dot makes no different vot I say,
Dot dog don't look pehind.

Und pooty soon dot race vas end,
Dot dog vas lost his tail—
Dot lobster, I vas took him home,
Und cook him in dot pail.

Dot moral vas, I tole you 'boud,
Pefore vas neffer known—
Don't vant to find out too much tings
Dot vasn't ov your own.

HE LAUGHED LAST
ANONYMOUS

A young man was sitting in the Grand Central Depot the other day, holding a baby in his arms, when the child began to cry so lustily as to attract the attention of everyone around him. By and by a waiting passenger walked over to him with a smile of pity on his face and said:

"A woman gave you that baby to hold while she went to see about her baggage, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Ha! ha! ha! I tumbled to the fact as soon as I saw you. You expect her back, I suppose?"

"Of course."

"Ha! ha! ha! This is rich! Looking for her every minute, aren't you?"

"Yes, and I think she'll come back."

"Well this makes me laugh,—ha! ha! ha! I had a woman play that same trick on me in a Chicago depot once, but no one ever will again. Young man, you've been played on for a hayseed. I would advise you to turn that baby over to a policeman and get out of here before some newspaper reporter gets hold of you."

"Oh, she'll come back, she'll come back."

"She will, eh? Ha! ha! ha! The joke grows richer and richer. Now what makes you think she'll come back?"

"Because she's my wife and this is our baby."

"Oh—um—I see," muttered the fat man, who got over feeling tickled all at once, and seeing a dog that a farmer had tied to one of the seats with a piece of clothes-line, he went over and gave it three swift kicks.

NORAH MURPHY AND THE SPIRITS
BY HENRY HATTON

Miss Honora Murphy, a young female engaged in the honorable and praiseworthy occupation of general housework, merely to dispel ennui, not hearing in some time from the "boy at home," to whom she was engaged to be married, was advised by the girl next door to consult the spirits. The result I shall give as detailed by her to her friend:

"How kem I by the black eye? Well, dear, I'll tell ye. Afther what yer wur tellin' me, I niver closed me eyes. The nixt marnin' I ast Maggie, the up-stairs gerrl, where was herself. 'In her boodoore,' sez Maggie, an' up I goes to her.

"'What's wantin', Nora?' sez she.

"'I've heerd as how me cousin's very sick,' sez I, 'an' I'm that frettin'. I must go an' see her.'

"'Fitter fur ye to go ter yer worruk,' sez she, lookin' mighty cross, an' she the lazy hulks as niver does a turn from mornin' till night.

"Well, dear, I niver takes sass from anny av 'em; so I ups an' tould her, 'Sorra taste av worruk I'll do the day, an' av yer don't like it, yer can find some one else,' an' I flounced mesel' out av the boodoore.

"Well, I wint to me room ter dress mesel', an' whin I got on me sale-shkin sack, I thought av me poor ould mother—may the hivins be her bed!—could only see me, how kilt she'd be intoirely. Whin I was drest I wint down-stairs an' out the front-doore, an' I tell yer I slammed it well after me.

"Well, me dear, whin I got ter the majum's, a big chap wid long hair and a baird like a billy-goat kem inter the room. Sez he:

"'Do yer want ter see the majum?'

"'I do,' sez I.

"'Two dollars,' sez he.

"'For what?' sez I.

"'For the sayants,' sez he.

"'Faix, it's no aunts I want ter see,' sez I, 'but Luke Corrigan's own self.' Well, me dear, wid that he giv a laugh ye'd think would riz the roof.

"'Is he yer husband?' sez he.

"'It's mighty 'quisitive ye are,' sez I, 'but he's not me husband, av yer want ter know, but I want ter larn av it's alive or dead he is, which the Lord forbid!'

"'Yer jist in the nick o' time,' sez he.

"'Faix, Ould Nick's here all the time, I'm thinkin', from what I hear,' sez I.

"Well, ter make a long story short, I paid me two dollars, an' wint into another room, an' if ye'd guess from now till Aisther, ye'd never think what the majum was. As I'm standin' here, 'twas nothin' but a woman! I was that bet, I was almost spacheless.

"'Be sated, madam,' sez she, p'intin' to a chair, 'yer must jine the circle.'

"'Faix, I'll ate a triangle, av yer wish,' sez I.

"'Yer must be very quiet,' sez she. An' so I set down along a lot av other folks at a table.

"'First I'll sing a hymn,' sez the majum, 'an' thin do all yees jine in the chorus.'

"Yer must excuse me, mum,' sez I. 'I niver could sing, but rather than spile the divarshun of the company, av any wan'll whistle, I'll dance as purty a jig as ye'll see from here to Bal'nasloe, tho it's meself as sez it.'

"Two young whipper-snappers begun ter laugh, but the look I gev them shut them up.

"Jist then, the big chap as had me two dollars kem into the room an' turned down the lights. In a minit the majum, shtickin' her face close to me own, whispers:

"'The sperrits is about—I kin feel them!'

"'Thrue for you, mum,' sez I, 'fur I kin shmell them!'

"'Hush, the influence is an me,' sez the majum. 'I kin see the lion an' the lamb lying down together.'

"'Bedad! it's like a wild beastess show,' sez I.

"'Will yer be quiet?' sez an ould chap next ter me. 'I hev a question to ax.'

"'Ax yer question,' sez I, 'an' I'll ax mine. I paid me two dollars, an' I'll not be put down.'

"'Plaze be quiet,' sez the majum, 'or the sperrits 'll lave.'

"Jist then came a rap on the table.

"'Is that the sperrit of Luke Corrigan?' sez the majum.

"'It is not,' sez I, 'for he could bate any boy in Killballyowen, an' if his fisht hit that table 'twould knock it to smithereens.'

"'Whist!' sez the majum, 'it's John Bunion.'

"'Ax him 'bout his progress,' sez a woman wid a face like a bowl of stirabout.

"'Ah, batherashin!' sez I. 'Let John's bunion alone, an' bring Luke Corrigan to the fore.'

"'Hish!' whispers the majum, 'I feel a sperrit near me.'

"'Feel av it has a lump on his nose,' sez I, 'for be that token ye'll know it's Luke.'

"'The moment is suspicious,' sez the majum.

"'I hope yer don't want to asperge me character,' sez I.

"'Whist!' sez she, 'the sperrits is droopin'.'

"'It's droppin' yer mane,' sez I, pickin' up a shmall bottle she let fall from her pocket.

"'Put that woman out,' sez an ould chap.

"'Who do you call a woman?' sez I. 'Lay a fing-er on me, an' I'll scratch a map of the County Clare on yer ugly phiz.'

"'Put her out!' 'Put her out!' sez two or three others, an' they made a lep for me. But, holy rocket! I was up in a minute.

"'Bring on yer fightin' sperrits,' I cried, 'from Julis Sazar to Tim Macould, an' I'll bate them all, for the glory of Ireland!'

"The big chap as had me money kem behind me, and put his elbow in me eye; but, me jewel, I tossed him over as ef he'd bin a feather, an' the money rolled out his pocket. Wid a cry of 'Faugh-a-ballah!' I grabbed six dollars, runned out av the doore, an' I'll niver put fut in the house again. An' that's how I kem be the black eye."

OPIE READ
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

Dis language Anglaise dat dey spe'k,
On State of Illinois,
Is hard for Frenchmen heem to learn,
It give me moch annoy.
Las' w'ek ma frien', McGoverane
He com' to me an' say:
"You mak' a toas' on Opie Read
W'en dey geeve gran' banqay."

"I mak' a toas'? Not on your life!
Dat man's wan frien' of me.
W'at for I warm heem op lak' toas'?
De reason I can't see."
An' den John laugh out on hees eye
W'en he is to me say:
"To mak' a toas' is not a roas',
It's jus' de odder way."

Dat's how I learn dat toas' an' roas'
Is call by different name,
Dough bot' are warm in dere own way,
Dere far from mean de same.
An' so, ma frien', in lof' I clasp
Your gr'ad, beeg, brawny han',
An' share vit you in fellowship,
An' pay you on deman'.

You're built upon a ver' large plan,
Overe seex feet you rise:
You need it all to shelter in
Your heart dat's double size.
You are too broad for narrow t'ings,
You gr'ad for any creed;
I'll eat de roas', but drink de toas',
To ma frien', Opie Read.

THE VILLAGE CHOIR
After the Charge of the Light Brigade
ANONYMOUS

Half a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch
Choir and precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, that precentor's look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook
From the Old Hundred!

Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson's hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high:
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell,
Not wise they sang nor well,
Drowning the sexton's bell,
While all the church wondered.

Dire the precentor's glare,
Flashed his pitchfork in air,
Sounding fresh keys to bear
Out the Old Hundred.
Swiftly he turned his back,
Reached he his hat from rack,
Then from the screaming pack,
Himself he sundered.
Tenors to right of him,
Tenors to left of him,
Discords behind him,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, the wild howls they wrought:
Right to the end they fought!
Some tune they sang, but not,
Not the Old Hundred.

BILLY OF NEBRASKA
BY J. W. BENGOUGH

'Twas out in Nebraska—a town they call Lincoln,
(I but mention the place, and everyone's thinkin'
Of W. J. B., the favorite son,
Who twice for the Washington sweepstakes has run),

But this is not a political story,
And has nothing to do with the Silver question,
Or Rate-bills, or Trusts, or even Old Glory,—
Tho Bryan's name may start the suggestion;
And he, as a matter of fact, is the source
Of the tale, which makes it much better, of course;
For it goes to show
What some may be slow
To believe,—that this Democrat, earnest and stern,
On whose lips the eloquent sentences burn,
And who never is known to drink or to smoke,
Has a fondness for fun and enjoys a good joke.

It appears that Billy—if I may make free,
(Like the G. O. P. press) with the Commoner's name—
Kept a goat, with a cognomen just the same,
(At least I suppose such was likely to be,
For Billy's the name of each goat that is he);
And I likewise suppose,
(Tho nobody knows)
That William's idea in keeping a goat
Was to make himself sound with the shantytown vote;
But be that as it may,
It happened one day
That he went to the court-house, did W. J.,—
To lodge in due form a complaint—to protest
'Gainst the manner in which his estate was assessed;
And especially to kick
(For even a peace-arbitrationist hollers
When you cut to the quick)—
To kick 'gainst the taxing at twenty-five dollars
Of Billy the goat. "I say it's too much,"
Cries Bryan, "and savors of kingcraft and such!
Tax-dodging's a thing I abhor, but I swear
This tax is unrighteous, unjust, and unfair;
'Tis a tax more odious than taxes on tea,
And illegal, moreover, for I fail to see
Where the law gives you power to impose such a rate,
For the statutes don't say that a goat's real estate.
I stand on my rights!"—Here he threw back his coat,
And like Hampton of old
Stood up brave and bold,
"I refuse," he declared, "to be taxed for my goat!"

The assessor, a gentle and mild-faced old chap,
Most anxious to do only that which was right,
Grew pale with affright
When he saw the great orators angry eyes snap;
But he ventured to speak
In a mild little squeak,
"If you will excuse me, I think you're astray;
The rules 'nd riglations is printed that way;
And I haint did nothin' but what I am bid;
I done it this year as I always have did;
Here's the book;
Take a look,
And read for yerself how the law sets it out,
And I guess you will see I know what I'm about.

"Your goat he runs on the highway, I guess?"
"Well, yes, I suppose,"
Says Bryan, "he does."
"And he butts, I presume, don't he, now, more or less?"
"Yes," says Bryan, "no doubt
He butts when he's out,
But what has that got to do with——"
"See here!"
Says the old man, as one who had made his point clear:
"I calk'late, mister, you hain't read the laws,
If you'll just take a look at this here little clause;
Where the duties of 'sessors it specially notes;
It says, as you see,
Tax all property
Runnin' and a-buttin' on the highway!
And that has jest exactly bin my way;
And the 'pinion's sound as oats
That it taxes on billy-goats
So you can't git out o' payin' in such a sly way!"

DOT LAMBS VOT MARY HAF GOT
ANONYMOUS

Mary haf got a leetle lambs already;
Dose vool vas vite like shnow;
Und efery times dot Mary dit vent oued,
Dot lambs vent also oued mit Mary.

Dot lambs did follow Mary von day of der schoolhouse,
Vich vas obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster,
Also, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud,
Ven dey dit saw dose lambs on der inside of der schoolhouse.

Und zo dot schoolmaster dit kick dot lambs quick oued,
Likevize, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides,
Und did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently bound,
Until Mary dit come also from dot schoolhouse oued.

Und den dot lambs dit run right away quick to Mary,
Und dit make his het on Mary's arms,
Like he would say, "I doand vas schkared,
Mary would keep from drouble ena how."

"Vot vas der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und Mary?"
Dose schillen dit ask it dot schoolmaster;
Veil, doand you know it, dot Mary lov dose lambs already,
Dot schoolmaster dit zaid.

Moral

Und zo, alzo, dot moral vaz,
Boued Mary's lamb's relations;
Of you lofe dese like she lofe dose,
Dot lambs vas obligations.

GEORGA WASHINGDONE
ANONYMOUS

Georga Washingdone vos a vera gooda man. Hees fadda he keepa bigga place in Washingdone Street. He hada a greata bigga lot planta wees cherra, peacha, pluma, chesnutta, peanutta, an' banan trees. He sella to mena keepa de standa. Gooda mana to Italia mana was Georga Washingdone. He hata de Irish. Kicka dem vay lika dees.

One tay wen litta Georga, hees son, vos dessa high, like de hoppa-grass, he take hees litta hatchet an' he beginna to fool round de place. He vos vera fresh, vos litta Georga. Poota soon he cutta downa de cherra tree lika dees. Dat spoila de cherra cropa for de season. Den he goa round trea killa de banan an' de peanutta.

Poota soon Georga's fadda coma rounda quicka lika dees. Den he lifta uppa hees fista looka lika big bunch a banan, an' he vos just goin' to giva litta Georga de smaka de snoota if he tola lie. Hees eyes blaze lika dees.

Litta Georga he say in hees minda, "I gitta puncha anyhow, so I tella de square ting." So he holda up hees litta hands lika dees, an' he calla "Tima!"

Den he says, "Fadda, I cutta de cherra tree weesa mia own litta hatchet!"

Hees fadda he say, "Coma to de barn weesa me! Litta Georga, I wanta speeka weesa you!"

Den hees fadda cutta big club, an' he spitta hees handa, lika dees!

Litta Georga say, "Fadda, I could notta tella de lie, because I knowa you caughta me deada to rights!"

Den de olda man he smila lika dees, an' he tooka litta Georga righta down to Wall Street, an' made him a present of de United States!

DA 'MERICANA GIRL
BY T. A. DALY

I gatta mash weeth Mag McCue,
An' she ees 'Mericana, too!
Ha! w'at you theenk? Now mebbe so,
You weell no calla me so slow
Eef som' time you can looka see
How she ees com' an' flirt weeth me.
Most evra two, t'ree day, my frand,
She stop by dees peanutta-stand
An' smile an' mak' do googla-eye
An' justa look at me an' sigh.
An' alla time she so excite'
She peeck som' fruit an' taka bite.
O! my, she eesa look so sweet
I no care how much fruit she eat.
Me? I am cool an' mak' pretand
I want no more dan be her frand;
But een my heart, you bat my life,
I theenk of her for be my wife.
To-day I theenk: "Now I weell see
How moocha she ees mash weeth me,"
An' so I speak of dees an' dat,
How moocha playnta mon' I gat,
How mooch I makin' evra day
An' w'at I spend an' put away.
An' den I ask, so queeck, so sly:
"You theenk som' pretta girl weell try
For lovin' me a leetla beet?"—
O! my! she eesa blush so sweet!—
"An' eef I ask her lika dees
For geevin' me a leetla keess,
You s'pose she geeve me wan or two?"
She tal me: "Twanty-t'ree for you!"
An' den she laugh so sweet, an' say:
"Skeeddoo! Skeeddoo!" an' run away.

She like so mooch for keessa me
She gona geev me twanty-t'ree!
I s'pose dat w'at she say—"skeeddoo"—
Ees alla same "I lova you."
Ha! w'at you theenk! Now, mebbe so
You weell no calla me so slow!

BECKY MILLER
ANONYMOUS

I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit,
My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up and git,
Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit—
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you,
Mit a face so bright, but a heart black and plue,
Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue—
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high;
I like you so better as gogonut bie;
But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie—
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent,
Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent;
All der vhile mit anoder rooster you vent—
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie,
I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die;
Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry—
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt,
I don'd belief a dings vot comes oudt by your moudt;
Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt—
Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

P. S. (pooty short)—Vell, he dold Becky to go avay enough dimes, enner how. I dinks he vas an uckly vellow. Vell, berhaps dot serfs Becky choost right for daking bresents from von vellow, vhile she vas vinking her nose by anoder vellow.

PAT AND THE MAYOR
ANONYMOUS

An Irishman named Patrick Maloney, recently landed, called upon the mayor to see if he could give him a position on the police force. The mayor, thinking he would have some fun with him, said:

"Before I can do anything for you, you will have to pass a Civil Service examination."

"Ah, dthin," said Pat, "and pfhat is the Civil Sarvice?"

"It means that you must answer three questions I put to you, and if you answer them correctly I may be able to place you."

"Well," said Pat, "I think I can answer dthim if they're not too hard."

"The first question is, 'What is the weight of the moon?'"

"Ah, now, how can I tell you that? Shure and I don't know."

"Well, try the second one, 'How many stars are in the sky?'"

"Now you're pokin' fun at me. How do I know how many Stars there are in the shky?"

"Then try the third question, and if you answer it correctly I'll forgive you the others, 'What am I thinking of?'"

"Pfhat are you thinkin' of? Shure, how can any man tell what you politicians are thinkin' about. Bedad I don't belave you know pfhat you're thinkin' about yourself. I guess I'll be lookin' for work ilsewhere, so good-day to you!"

The mayor called Pat back and told him not to be discouraged, but to go home and think about it, and if on the morrow he thought he could answer the questions to come down again and he would give him another chance.

So Pat went home and told his brother Mike about it, whereupon Mike said:

"Now you give me dthim clothes of yours and I'll go down and answer his questions for him."

So next morning Mike went down bright and early, and the mayor recognizing Patrick as he thought, said:

"Ah, good morning, Patrick. Have you really come back to answer those three questions I put to you yesterday?"

"Yis, I have."

"Well the first question is, 'What is the weight of the moon?'"

"The weight of the moon is one hundred pounds, twenty-five pounds to each quarther, four quarthers make one hundred."

"Capital, Patrick, capital! Now the second question is, 'How many stars are in the sky?'"

"How many shtars are in the shky? There are four billion, sivin million, noine hundred and thirty-two tousand and one."

"Splendid, Patrick, splendid. Now look out for the last question which is, 'What am I thinking of?'"

"Pfhat are you thinkin' of? Well I know pfhat you're thinkin' of. You're thinkin' I'm Pat, but you're tirribly mistakin'; I'm his brother Mike!"

THE WIND AND THE MOON
BY GEORGE MACDONALD

Said the wind to the moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare
In the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about;
I hate to be watched; I will blow you out."

The wind blew hard and out went the moon.
So, deep
On a heap
Of clouds, to sleep,
Down lay the wind, and slumbered soon—
Muttering low, "I've done for that moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high
In the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the wind—"I will blow you out again."

The wind blew hard, and the moon grew dim.
"With my sledge
And my wedge
I have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff
More's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!"

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
In the air
Nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the moon was gone!

The wind, he took to his revels once more;
On down,
In town,
Like a merry mad clown,
He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar,
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
But in vain
Was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,
And shone
On her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.

Said the wind—"What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath
Good faith!
I blew her to death—
First blew her away right out of the sky—
Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

But the moon she knew nothing about the affair,
For, high
In the sky,
With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great wind blare.

TOTAL ANNIHILATION
ANONYMOUS

Oh, he was a Bowery boot-black bold,
And his years they numbered nine.
Rough and unpolished was he,
Albeit he constantly aimed to "shine."

Proud as a king on his box he sat
Munching an apple red,
While the boys of his set looked wistfully on.
And "give us a bite," they said.

That boot-black smiled a lordly smile—
"No free bites here," he cried.
Then his comrades sadly walked away,
Save one, who stood at his side.

"Bill, give us the core," he whispered low.
That boot-black smiled once more,
And a mischievous dimple grew in his cheek—
"There ain't going to be no core."

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARRIED LIFE
ANONYMOUS

A well-drest woman walked into a prominent New York office building the other day and took one of the elevators. Her husband saw her from across the street, and hurrying over took the next elevator. He went to the office where he knew she had business, and found she had stept in only for a moment and had gone down again.

The elevator despatcher said to her: "Your husband just went up, and I think he's looking for you."

She took the next elevator up. Just then her husband came down. He looked all around and then inquired:

"Have you seen my wife here?"

"Yes, she went up this minute."

He took the next elevator and was just out of sight when she came down.

"Your husband has just gone up."

"Then I'll go right up, as he'll wait for me this time."

Down came her husband a second afterward.

"Did my wife come down again?"

"Yes, and just went up. She thought you'd wait for her."

After waiting a few moments he became impatient and went up again. She had been waiting for him, and came down.

"Husband just gone up."

"Then I'll wait here, as he will surely come down."

She waited a few moments and then hurried up again just as he came down.

"Wife here?"

"Just gone up!"

"Well I'm going home and you tell her——" He paused, turned around and went up again. Down she came.

"Did he come down?"

"Yes, and he's gone up again as mad as a hornet."

"Then I had better go right up."

Up she went and down he came.

"Just gone up."

"Well, I'll be hanged if I'm going up again. No, sir! I've seen many ups and downs in my time, but this is the limit. I'm going to sit right here and wait if she never comes down!"

When they closed the building for the night, he was still sitting down-stairs, and she, equally determined, was waiting up-stairs, while the elevator man remarked:

"Well, I hope dey'll meet in heav'n!"

THE CROOKED MOUTH FAMILY
ANONYMOUS

In a locality not far removed from the city's busy hum, there lived a family noted for certain remarkable peculiarities of facial distortion. In the father the lower jaw protruded; in the mother it receded so that the upper jaw overhung it like a canopy; the daughter had her face drawn to the left side, while the son had his drawn to the right, and in addition to this deformity stammered most dreadfully. While he attempted to talk his face assumed an expression equally grotesque as the caricatures in a yellow journal.

The father kept a store and one day a man entered whose face, strangely enough, was drawn strongly to the right side. Addressing the daughter, who was standing back of the counter, he said, "I want a pound of tea," his words coming from the corner of his mouth.

"What are you making fun of me for?" replied the girl, her face drawn in the opposite direction.

"I ain't making fun of you. Can't help it. I was born this way."

The young lady, however, was not satisfied that the stranger was telling the truth, so, stepping to the door she called to her father, "Pa, there's a man down here making fun of me."

The father put in an appearance and demanded of the customer why he had made fun of his daughter.

"I didn't make fun of her."

"Yes you did," said the girl.

"I s-s-saw y-y-you," stammered the brother, from out the corner of his twisted face.

"I tell you I didn't. I was born this way. Can't talk any other."

"Well," said the old man, "you would make a good match and you ought to marry each other."

This proposition meeting with a favorable consideration, the two were made one.

The entire family went on the wedding tour, and one night they spent at a country inn where candles were used for purposes of illumination. Picking up a candle the groom attempted to blow it out, but he nearly exhausted himself in the effort without accomplishing his purpose. The bride came to his rescue and blew, and blew, and blew, but with no better result. Papa appearing upon the scene, said, "Let me have it. I'll show you how to do it," and he went to work with a noise that sounded like the exhaust of a high-pressure engine, but the candle stubbornly refused to go out. The mother, hearing the racket, then came upon the scene, and learning of their quandary, put the candle on her head and blew upward but the flame merely flickered as tho fanned by a gentle zephyr. Just then they saw the watchman passing by, so, in their extremity, they called him to their aid and he promptly blew out the candle because he had a straight mouth.

"IMPH-M"
ANONYMOUS

When I was a laddie lang syne at the schule,
The maister aye ca'd me a dunce an' a fule;
For somehoo his words I could ne'er un'erstan',
Unless when he bawled, "Jamie, hand oot yer han'!"
Then I gloom'd, and said, "Imph-m,"
I glunch'd, and said, "Imph-m"—
I wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say—a-y-e!

Ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbits' himsel',
He vow'd he would thrash me if I wadna spell,
Quo I, "Maister Quill," wi' a kin' o' a swither,
"I'll spell ye the word if ye'll spell me anither:
Let's hear ye spell 'Imph-m,'
That common word 'Imph-m,'
That auld Scotch word 'Imph-m,' ye ken it means a-y-e!"

Had ye seen hoo he glour'd, hoo he scratched his big pate,
An' shouted, "Ye villain, get oot o' my gate!
Get aff to your seat! yer the plague o' the schule!
The de'il, o' me kens if yer maist rogue or fule!"
But I only said, "Imph-m,"
That pawkie word "Imph-m,"
He couldna spell "Imph-m," that stands for an a-y-e!

An' when a brisk wooer, I courted my Jean—
O' Avon's braw lasses the pride an' the queen—
When 'neath my gray pladie, wi' heart beatin' fain,
I speired in a whisper if she'd be my ain,
She blushed, an' said, "Imph-m,"
That charming word "Imph-m,"
A thousan' times better an' sweeter than a-y-e!

Just ae thing I wanted my bliss to complete—
Ae kiss frae her rosy mou', couthie an' sweet—
But a shake o' her head was her only reply—
Of course, that said no, but I kent she meant a-y-e,
For her twa een said "Imph-m,"
Her red lips said, "Imph-m,"
Her hale face said "Imph-m," an' "Imph-m" means a-y-e!

THE USUAL WAY
ANONYMOUS

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took,
For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook."
And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day,
And they met—in the usual way.

Then he sat down beside her, and an hour or two went by,
But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;
"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day."
And he was—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about,
But the fish perceived distinctly, he was not looking out;
And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay,
But she did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh,
As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by;
"We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray,
And they did—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro,
And day by day the fishes swam securely down below,
Till this little story ended, as such little stories may
Very much—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?
Do they never fret or quarrel, like other couples do?
Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey?
Well, they do—in the usual way.

NOTHING SUITED HIM
ANONYMOUS

He sat at the dinner-table there,
With discontented frown.
The potatoes and steak were underdone
And the bread was baked too brown.
The pie too sour, the pudding too sweet,
And the mince-meat much too fat,
The soup was greasy, too, and salt—
'Twas hardly fit for a cat.

"I wish you could taste the bread and pies
I have seen my mother make;
They were something like, and 'twould do you good
Just to look at a slice of her cake."
Said the smiling wife: "I'll improve with age.
Just now, I'm a beginner.
But your mother called to see me to-day
And I got her to cook the dinner."

A LITTLE FELLER
ANONYMOUS

Say, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller,
With pop and mom a-readin' all the while,
An' never sayin' anything to cheer ye,
An' lookin' 's if they didn't know how to smile;
With hook an' line a-hangin' in the wood-shed,
An' lots o' 'orms down by the outside cellar,
An' Brown's creek just over by the mill-dam—
Say, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller.

Why, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller
Right on from sun-up when the day commences
Fur little fellers don't have much to think of,
'Cept chasin' gophers 'long the corn-field fences,
Or diggin' after moles down in the wood-lot,
Or climbin' after apples what's got meller,
Or fishin' down in Brown's creek an' mill-pond—
Say, Sunday's lonesome fur a little feller.

But Sunday's never lonesome fur a little feller
When he's a-stayin down to Uncle Ora's;
He took his book onct right out in the orchard,
An' told us little chaps just lots of stories,
All truly true, that happened onct fur honest,
An' one 'bout lions in a sort o' cellar,
An' how some angels came an' shut their mouths up,
An' how they never teched that Dan'l feller.

An' Sunday's pleasant down to Aunt Marilda's;
She lets us take some books that some one gin her,
An' takes us down to Sunday-school 't the schoolhouse;
An' sometimes she has a nice shortcake fur dinner.
An' onct she had a puddin' full o' raisins,
An' onct a frosted cake all white an' yeller.
I think, when I stay down to Aunt Marilda's,
That Sunday's pleasant fur a little feller.

ROBIN TAMSON'S SMIDDY
BY ALEXANDER RODGER

My mither men't my auld breeks,
An' wow! but they were duddy,
And sent me to get Mally shod
At Robin Tamson's smiddy.
The smiddy stands beside the burn
That wimples through the clachan,
I never yet gae by the door,
But aye I fa' a-laughin'.

For Robin was a walthy carle,
An' had ae bonnie dochter,
Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man,
Tho mony lads had sought her.
And what think ye o' my exploit?—
The time our mare was shoeing,
I slippit up beside the lass,
An' briskly fell a-wooing.

An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks,
The time that we sat crackin',
Quo' I, "My lass, ne'er mind the clouts,
I've new anes for the makin';
But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me,
An' lea' the carle, your father,
Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,
Mysel', an' a' thegither."

"'Deed, lad," quo' she, "your offer's fair,
I really think I'll tak' it,
Sae, gang awa', get out the mare,
We'll baith slip on the back o't;
For gin I wait my father's time,
I'll wait till I be fifty;
But na;—I'll marry in my prime,
An' mak' a wife most thrifty."

Wow! Robin was an angry man,
At tyning o' his dochter;
Through a' the kintra-side he ran,
An' far an' near he sought her;
But when he cam' to our fire-end,
An' fand us baith thegither,
Quo' I, "Gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn,
An' ye may tak' my mither."

Auld Robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow,
"Guid sooth!" quo' he, "you're merry,
But I'll just tak' ye at your word,
An' end this hurry-burry."
So Robin an' our auld wife
Agreed to creep thegither;
Now, I ha'e Robin Tamson's pet,
An' Robin has my mither.

A BIG MISTAKE
ANONYMOUS

Recently our church has had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable man; but having come from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people.

Therefore, it happened that during his pastoral calls he made several ludicrous blunders.

The other evening he called upon Mrs. Hadden. She had just lost her husband, and naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged, she was not at all surprized to hear him remark:

"It was a sad bereavement, was it not?"

"Yes," faltered the widow.

"Totally unexpected?"

"Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it."

"He died in the barn, I suppose?"

"Oh, no; in the house."

"Ah—well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him."

"Of course, sir,"—this with a vim.

The minister looked rather surprized, but continued:

"Blind staggers was the disease, I believe?"

"No, sir," snapped the widow, "apoplexy."

"Indeed; you must have fed him too much."

"He was always capable of feeding himself, sir."

"Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard, didn't he?"

"He did."

"You had to hit him on the head with an ax to put him out of misery, I was told."

"Whoever told you so did not speak the truth. James died naturally."

"Yes," repeated the minister, in a slightly perplexed tone, "he kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, did he not?"

"No, sir, he didn't."

"Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?"

"Thirty-five."

"Then he did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with another."

"Never, sir—never will I see one as good as he."

"Oh, yes, you will. He had the heaves bad, you know."

"Nothing of the kind!"

"Why, I recollect I saw him, one day, passing along the road, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the string-halt."