SORRY. THERE WERE SEVERAL IN LINE AHEAD OF YOU.

Sir: I have been waiting, very patiently, for some one to inform you that the sincerity of A. L. Lewis, manager of the country elevator department of the Quaker Oats Company, is sometimes made questionable by the initials, ALL/GAS, appearing on his business correspondence. O. K.

THE SECOND POST.
[Received by a clothing company.]

Dear Sirs: I received the suits you sent me but in blue not gray as I said. Don’t try to send me your refuss, I am sending them back. I ain’t color blind or a jack ass, you shouldn’t treat me as that. I understand your wife is making coats for ladies now. Have her make one (dark) for my wife who is a stout 42 with a fer neck. Now send me what I asked for, the old woman is perticular. The trousers you sent wouldn’t slip over my head. Ever faithful, etc.

For Academy Ghost, or Familiar Spirit, P. D. Q. nominates Miss Bessie Spectre of Boston.

[p 82]
]“The lake is partially frozen over and well filled with skaters.”—Janesville Gazette.

Three children sliding on the ice,

Upon a summer’s day,

As it fell out, they all fell in,

The rest they ran away.

There is plenty of snap to the department of mathematics in the Shortridge high school in Indianapolis. The head of the department is Walter G. Gingery.

Wedded, in Chicago, Otho Neer and Lucille Dimond. Fashion your own setting.

Oh, dear! Rollin Pease, the singer, is around again, reminding sundry readers of the difficulty of keeping them on a knife.

“THOSE FLAPJACKS OF BROWN’S.”
(Postscriptum.)

I’ll write no more verses—plague take ’em!—

Court neither your smiles nor your frowns,

If you’ll only please tell how to make ’em,

Those flapjacks of Brown’s. D. W. A.

Three cupfuls of flour will do nicely,

And toss in a teaspoon of salt;

Next add baking powder, precisely

Two teaspoons, the stuff to exalt;

[p 83]
]Of sugar two tablespoons, heaping—

(All spoons should be heaping, says Neal);

Then mix it with strokes that are sweeping,

And stir like the Deil.

Three eggs. (Tho’ the missus may sputter,

You’ll pay to her protest no heed.)

A size-of-an-egg piece of butter,

And milk as you happen to need.

Now mix the whole mess with a beater;

Don’t get it too thick or too thin.

(And I pause to remark that this meter

Is awkward as sin.)

Of course there are touches that only

A genius like Brown can impart;

And genius is everywhere lonely,

And no one but Brown has the art.

I picture him stirring—a gentle

Exponent of modern Romance,

With his shirttails, in style Oriental,

Outside of his pants.