Humorous Hits and How to Hold an Audience / A Collection of Short Selections, Stories and Sketches for All Occasions

by Unknown

A SHORT ENCORE

Man wants but little here below,
He's not so hard to please;
But woman (bless her little heart)
Wants everything she sees!

MY DOUBLE, AND HOW HE UNDID ME
BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE

I am, or rather, was a minister, and was settled in an active, wide-awake town with a bright parish and a charming young wife. At first it was all delightful, but as my duties increased I found myself leading a double life—one for my parish, whom I loved, and the other for a vague public, for whom I did not care two straws. It was then that on my wife's suggestion I looked for a double—some one who would pass for me and fill the many engagements I wanted to shirk. I found him. When he was discovered his name was Dennis Shea, and he was not shaved, had no spectacles, and his style of dress was not at all like mine; but these difficulties were soon surmounted, for, by application to the Judge of Probate, his name was soon changed to Frederick Ingham—my name. As for appearance, he was so much like me that by the united efforts of Polly and myself and a tailor he was made to look the exact image of me. Then in four successive afternoons I taught him four speeches, which were to be his stock in trade:

No. 1—"Very well, thank you; and you?" (This for an answer to casual salutations.)

No. 2—"I am very glad you liked it." (This in response to a compliment on a sermon.)

No. 3—"There has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that I will not occupy the time." (This for public meetings when called to speak.)

No. 4—"I agree in general with my friend on the other side of the room." (This when asked for an opinion of his own.)

Thus equipped, my double attended a number of conventions and meetings which I was too busy to notice and was very successful. He gained a good reputation for me, and people began to say I was less exclusive than I used to be, and that I was more punctual, less talkative, etc. His success was so great that one evening I risked him at a reception. I could ill afford the time to go, and so I sent him with Polly, who kept her eye on him, and afterward told me about it. He had to take a very talkative lady—Mrs. Jeffries—down to supper, and at sight of the eatables he became a little excited, and attempted one of his speeches to the lady. He tried the shortest one in his most gallant manner: "Very well, thank you; and you?" Polly, who stood near his chair, was much frightened, as this speech had no connection with anything that had been said, but Mrs. Jeffries was so much engrossed with her own talking that she noticed nothing. She rattled on so busily that Dennis was not obliged to say anything more until the eating was over, when he said, to fill up a pause: "There has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that I will not occupy the time." This again frightened Polly, but she managed to get him away before he had done anything serious.

After this my double relieved me in so many ways that I grew quite light-hearted. That happy year I began to know my wife by sight. We saw each other sometimes, and how delightful it was! But all this could not last; and at length poor Dennis, my double, undid me!

There was some ridiculous new movement on foot to organize some kind of a society, and there was to be a public meeting. Of course I was asked to attend and to speak. After much urging I consented to go and sit on the platform, upon condition that I would not be called upon to make a speech. This was agreed upon, and I went—that is, Dennis went, having been told to say nothing on any subject. He sat resplendent on the platform, and kept his peace during the preliminary exercises, which were rather dry. Governor Blake called the meeting to order, but as he really did not know what the object of the gathering was, he said that there were other gentlemen present who could entertain them better than he. Then there followed an awkward scene, for nobody wanted to speak, and every one that was called upon was either absent or unprepared; and finally a wretched boy in the gallery called out, "Ingham! Ingham!" The governor thought I would respond, and as nothing had been said so far, he ventured to ask me, saying: "Our friend, Mr. Ingham, is always prepared, and tho we had not relied upon him, he will say a word perhaps." Applause followed, which turned Dennis' head. He rose and tried speech No. 3: "There has been so much said, and on the whole so well said, that I will not longer occupy the time!"

Then he sat down, looking for his hat—for things seemed squally. But the people cried, "Go on! Go on!" and some applauded. Dennis still confused, but flattered by the applause, rose again, and this time tried No. 2: "I am very glad you like it." Which, alas! should only be said when complimented on a sermon. My best friends stared, and people who didn't know me yelled with delight. A boy in the gallery cried out: "It's all a humbug!" just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried No. 4: "I agree in general with my friend on the other side of the room." The poor governor, doubting his senses, crossed to stop him, but too late. The same gallery boy shouted: "How's your mother?" And Dennis, completely lost, tried as his last shot No. 1: "Very well, thank you; and you?" The audience rose in a whirl of excitement. Some other impertinence from the gallery was aimed at Dennis; he broke all restraint and to finish undoing me, he called out: "Any wan o' ye blatherin' rascals that wants to fight, can come down an' I'll take any five o' yez, single-handed; ye're all dogs and cowards! Sure an' I've said all his riverance an' the mistress bade me say!"

That was all; my double had undone me.

Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown & Co., Boston, Mass.

ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK
ANONYMOUS

Shady tree—babbling brook,
Girl in hammock—reading book.

Golden curls—tiny feet,
Girl in hammock—looks so sweet.

Man rides past—big mustache,
Girl in hammock—makes a "mash."

"Mash" is mutual—day is set,
Man and maiden—married get.

Married now a year and a day,
Keeping house in Avenue A.

Red-hot stove—beefsteak frying,
Girl got married—cooking trying.

Cheeks all burning—eyes look red,
Girl got married—almost dead.

Biscuit burnt up—beefsteak charry,
Girl got married—awful sorry.

Man comes home—tears mustache,
Mad as blazes—got no cash.

Thinks of hammock—in the lane;
Wishes maiden—back again.

Maiden also—thinks of swing,
And wants to go back, too, poor thing!

Hour of midnight—baby squawking;
Man in bare feet—bravely walking;

The baby yells—now the other
Twin, he strikes up—like his brother.

Paregoric—by the bottle
Poured into—the baby's throttle.

Naughty tack—points in air,
Waiting some one's—foot to tear.

Man in bare feet—see him there!
O my gracious!—hear him swear!

Raving crazy—gets his gun
Blows his head off—dead and gone.

Pretty widow—with a book
In the hammock—by the brook.

Man rides past—big mustache;
Keeps on riding—nary "mash."

FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN
BY S. W. GILLINAN

Superintindent wuz Flannigan;
Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin;
Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack,
An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back,
Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,
Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in;
That is, this Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan,
He writed tin pages—did Finnigin,
An' he tould jist how the smash occurred;
Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd
Did Finnigin write to Flannigan
Afther the cars had gone on ag'in.
That wuz how Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin—
He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan;
An' it wore'm clane an' complately out
To tell what Finnigin writ about
In his writin' to Muster Flannigan.
So he writed back to Finnigin:
"Don't do sich a sin ag'in;
Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan,
He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin;
An' he said: "I'll gamble, a whole month's pa-ay
That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay
Befoore Sup'rintindint—that's Flannigan—
Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in.
From Finnigin to Flannigan
Repoorts won't be long ag'in."

---

Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin,
On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan,
A rail gave way on a bit av a curve,
An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve.
"There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,
"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan."
An' he winked at McCorrigan,
As married a Finnigin.

He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,
As minny a railroader's been ag'in,
An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright
In Finnigin's shanty all that night—
Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin!
An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:
Off ag'in, on ag'in,
Gone ag'in—Finnigin."

From Life, by courtesy of the publishers.

AN INTRODUCTION
BY MARK TWAIN

"Ladies—and—gentlemen:—By—the request of the—Chairman of the—Com-mit-tee—I beg leave to—introduce—to you—the reader of the evening—a gentleman whose great learning—whose historical ac-curacy—whose devotion—to science—and—and—whose veneration for the truth—are only equaled by his high moral character—and—his—majestic presence. I allude—in these vague general terms—to my-self. I—am a little opposed to the custom of ceremoniously introducing a reader to the audience, because it seems—unnecessary—where the man has been properly advertised! But as—it is—the custom—I prefer to make it myself—in my own case—and then I can rely on getting in—all the facts! I never had but one introduction—that seemed to me just the thing—and the gentleman was not acquainted with me, and there was no nonsense. Ladies and gentlemen, I shall waste no time in this introduction. I know of only two facts about this man: first, he—has never been in the state prison; and second, I can't—imagine why."

THE HARP OF A THOUSAND STRINGS
A Hard-shell Baptist Sermon
BY JOSHUA S. MORRIS

(This characteristic effusion first appeared in a New Orleans paper. The sermon is supposed to have been preached at a village on the bank of the Mississippi River, whither the volunteer parson had brought his flatboat for the purpose of trade.)

I may say to you, my brethring, that I am not an edicated man, an' I am not one of them as beleeves that edication is necessary for a Gospel minister, for I beleeve the Lord edicates his preachers jest as He wants 'em to be edicated; an' altho I say it that oughtn't to say it, yet in the State of Indianny, whar I live, thar's no man as gits bigger congregations nor what I gits.

Thar may be some here to-day, my brethring, as don't know what persuasion I am uv. Well, I must say to yu, my brethring, that I'm a Hard-shell Baptist. Thar's some folks as don't like the Hard-shell Baptists, but I'd rather have a hard shell as no shell at all. You see me here to-day, my brethring, drest up in fine clothes; you mout think I was proud, but I am not proud, my brethring; and altho I've been a preacher of the Gospel for twenty years, an' altho I'm capting of the flatboat that lies at your landing, I'm not proud, my brethring.

I am not gwine to tell edzactly whar my tex may be found; suffice to say, it's in the leds of the Bible, and you'll find it somewhar between the fust chapter of the book of Generations and the last chapter of the book of Revolutions; and ef you'll go and sarch the Scriptures, you'll not only find my tex thar, but a great many other texes as will do you good to read; and my tex, when you shall find it, you shall find it to read thus: "And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

My tex, my brethring, leads me to speak of sperits. Now, thar's a great many kinds of sperits in the world. In the fust place, thar's the sperits as some folks call ghosts; and thar's the sperits of turpentine; and thar's the sperits as some folks call liquor, an' I've got as good an artikel of them kind of sperits on my flatboat as ever was fotch down the Mississippi River. But thar's a great many other kinds of sperits, for the tex says, "He played on a harp uv a t-h-o-u-s-and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

But I tell you the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex is FIRE. That's the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, my brethring. Now, thar's a great many kinds uv fire in the world. In the fust place, there's the common sort of fire you light your cigars or pipe with; and then thar's foxfire and camphire, fire before you're ready, and fire and fall back, and many other kinds of fire—for the tex say, "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

But I'll tell you the kind of fire as is meant in the tex, my brethring: its HELL-FIRE! An' that's the kind uv fire as a great many uv you'll come to, ef you don't do better nor what you have been doin'—for "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

Now, the different sorts of fire in the world may be likened onto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the fust place, we have the Piscapalions, an' they are a high-sailin' and highfalutin' set; and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up in the air, and he goes up, and up, and up, till he looks no bigger than your finger-nail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down, and down, and down, and is a-fillin' himself on the carkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road—and "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

And then thar's the Methodis, and they may be likened unto the squirril runnin' up into a tree, for the Methodis beleeves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfection; and the squirril goes up and up, and up and up, and he jumps from limb to limb, and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he cums kerflumix; and that's like the Methodis, for they is allers fallin' from grace, ah!—and "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

And then, my brethring, thar's the Baptists, ah! and they have been likened unto a 'possum on a 'simmon tree, and thunders may roll and the earth may quake, but that 'possum clings thar still, sh! and you may shake one foot loose, and the other's thar, and you make shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the limb, and clings, and he clings furever—for "He played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck."

Reprinted from the "Four-masted Catboat," by permission of the author and The Century Company. Copyright, 1899.

THE DIFFICULTY OF RIMING
ANONYMOUS

We parted by the gate in June,
That soft and balmy month,
Beneath the sweetly beaming moon,
And (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth—I can't
find a rime to month).

Years were to pass ere we should meet.
A wide and yawning gulf
Divides me from my love so sweet,
While (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf—stuck again;
I can't get any rime to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself).

Oh, how I dreaded in my soul
To part from my sweet nymph,
While years should their long seasons roll
Before (hymph-dymph-symph—I guess I'll
have to let it go at that).

Beneath my fortune's stern decree
My lonely spirits sunk,
For I a weary soul should be,
And a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk—that will
never do in the world).

She buried her dear lovely face
Within her azure scarf,
She knew I'd take the wretchedness,
As well as (parf-darf-harf-and-harf—
that won't answer either).

Oh, I had loved her many years.
I loved her for herself;
I loved her for her tender tears,
And also for her (welf-nelf-self-pelf—no,
no; not for her pelf).

I took between my hands her head,
How sweet her lips did pouch!
I kissed her lovingly and said—
(Bouch-mouch-louch-ouch—not a bit of it
did I say ouch!).

I sorrowfully wrung her hand,
My tears they did escape,
My sorrow I could not command,
And I was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape;
well, perhaps I did feel like an ape).

I gave to her a fond adieu,
Sweet pupil of love's school,
I told her I would e'er be true,
And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since
I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love
with another fellow before I was gone a month).

SO WAS I
BY JOSEPH BERT SMILEY

My name is Tommy an' I hates
That feller of my sister Kate's.
He's bigger'n I am an' you see
He's sorter lookin' down on me,
An' I resents it with a vim;
I think I'm just as good as him.
He's older, an' he's mighty fly
But he's a kid,—an' so am I.

One time he came,—down by the gate,
I guess it must been awful late,—
An' Katie, she was there, an' they
Was feelin' very nice and gay,
An' he was talkin' all the while,
About her sweet an' lovin' smile,
An' everythin' was nice as pie,
An' they was there,—an' so was I.

They didn't see me, 'cause I slid
Down underneath a bush, an' hid,
An' he was sayin' that his love
Was greater'n all the stars above
Up in the glorious heavens placed;
An' then his arm got round her waist,
An' clouds were floatin' in the sky,
An' they was there,—an' so was I.

I didn't hear just all they said,
But by an' by my sister's head
Was droopin' on his shoulder, an'
I seen him holdin' Katie's hand,
An' then he hugged her closer, some,
An' then I heered a kiss—yum, yum!
An' Katie blushed an' drew a sigh,
An' sorter coughed,—an' so did I.

An' then that feller looked around
An' seed me there, down on the ground,
An'—was he mad?—well, betcher boots
I gets right outer there an' scoots.
An' he just left my sister Kate
A-standin' right there by the gate;
An' I seen blood was in his eye,
An' he runned fast,—an' so did I.

I runned the very best I could
But he cotched up,—I's 'fraid he would,
An' then he said he'd teach me how
To know my manners, he'd allow;
An' than he shaked me awful. Gee!
He jest—he frashed the ground with me.
An' then he stopt it by and by,
'Cause he was tired,—an' so was I.

An' then he went back to the gate
An' couldn't find my sister Kate,
'Cause she went to bed, while he
Was runnin' round an' thumpin' me.
I got round in a shadder dim,
An' made a face, an' guffed at him;
An' then the moon larfed, in the sky,
'Cause he was there,—an' so was I.

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT
BY JOHN HAY

The king was sick. His cheek was red,
And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with a kingly zest,
And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick—and a king should know;
And doctors came by the score;
They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,
And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,
And one was as poor as a rat;
He had passed his life in studious toil
And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book;
His patients gave him no trouble;
If they recovered, they paid him well,
If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,
As the king on his couch reclined;
In succession they thumped his august chest,
But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut."
"Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,—
In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
The other leach grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran:
"The king will be well if he sleeps one night
In the shirt of a happy man."

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,
And fast their horses ran,
And many they saw, and to many they spake,
But they found no happy man.

They saw two men by the roadside sit,
And both bemoaned their lot;
For one had buried his wife, he said.
And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate;
A beggar lay whistling there;
He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled
On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay,
And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend,
You seem to be happy to-day?"

"Oh, yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,
And his voice rang free and glad;
"An idle man has so much to do
That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man." the courier said,
"Our luck has led us aright.
I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry rascal lay back on the grass
And laughed till his face was black;
"I would do it," said he, and roared with the fun,
"But I haven't a shirt to my back!"

Each day to the king the reports came in
Of the unsuccessful spies;
And the sad panorama of human woes,
Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life,
And his maladies hatched in gloom;
He opened his windows and let the free air
Of the heavens into his room.

And out he went into the world and toiled
In his own appointed way,
And the people blest him, the land was glad,
And the king was well and gay.

DER OAK UND DER VINE
BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS

I don'd vas preaching voman's righdts,
Or anyding like dot,
Und I likes to see all beoples
Shust gontended mit dheir lot;
But I vants to gontradict dot shap
Dot made dis leedle shoke:
"A voman vas der glinging vine,
Und man, der shturdy oak."

Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue;
Budt, den dimes oudt off nine,
I find me oudt dot man himself
Vas peen der glinging vine;
Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone
Und he vas shust "tead proke,"
Dot's vhen der voman shteps righdt in,
Und peen der shturdy oak.

Shust go oup to der paseball groundts
Und see dhose "shturdy oaks"
All planted roundt ubon der seats—
Shust hear dheir laughs und shokes!
Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs,
Mit glothes oudt on der lines:
Vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine frendts,
Und vhich der glinging vines?

Ven sickness in der householdt comes,
Und veeks und veeks he shtays,
Who vas id fighdts him mitout resdt,
Dhose veary nighdts und days?
Who beace und gomfort alvays prings,
Und cools dot fefered prow?
More like id vas der tender vine
Dot oak he glings to, now.

"Man vants budt leedle here pelow,"
Der boet von time said;
Dhere's leedle dot man he don'd vant,
I dink id means, inshted;
Und vhen der years keep rolling on,
Dheir cares und droubles pringing,
He vants to pe der shturdy oak,
Und, also, do der glinging.

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more,
Und don'd so shturdy peen,
Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance
To helb run life's masheen.
In belt und sickness, shoy und pain,
In calm or shtormy veddher,
'Tvas beddher dot dhose oaks und vines
Should alvays gling togedder.

From "Dialect Ballads," copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.

THE SHIP OF FAITH
ANONYMOUS

A certain colored brother had been holding forth to his little flock upon the ever-fruitful topic of Faith, and he closed his exhortation about as follows:

"My bruddren, ef yous gwine to git saved, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. I tell you, my bruddren, dere ain't no odder way. Dere ain't no gitten up de back stairs, nor goin' 'cross lots; you can't do dat away, my bruddren, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. Once 'pon a time dere was a lot ob colored people, an' dey was all gwine to de promised land. Well, dey knowed dere w'an't no odder way for 'em to do but to git on board de Ship ob Faith. So dey all went down an' got on board, de ole granfaders, an' de ole granmudders, an' de pickaninnies, an' all de res' of 'em. Dey all got on board 'ceptin' one mons'us big feller, he said he's gwine to swim, he was. 'W'y!' dey said, 'you can't swim so fur like dat. It am a powerful long way to de promised land!' He said: 'I kin swim anywhur, I kin. I git board no boat, no, 'deed!' Well, my bruddren, all dey could say to dat poor disluded man dey couldn't git him on board de Ship of Faith, so dey started off. De day was fair, de win' right; de sun shinin' and ev'ryt'ing b'utiful, an' dis big feller he pull off his close and plunge in de water. Well, he war a powerful swimmer, dat man, 'deed he war; he war dat powerful he kep' right 'long side de boat all de time; he kep' a hollerin' out to de people on de boat, sayin': 'What you doin' dere, you folks, brilin' away in de sun; you better come down heah in de water, nice an' cool down here.' But dey said: 'Man alive, you better come up here in dis boat while you got a chance.' But he said: 'No, indeedy! I git aboard no boat; I'm havin' plenty fun in de water.' Well, bimeby, my bruddren, what you tink dat pore man seen? A horrible, awful shark, my bruddren; mouf wide opne, teef more'n a foot long, ready to chaw dat pore man all up de minute he catch him. Well, when he seen dat shark he begun to git awful scared, an' he holler out to de folks on board de ship: 'Take me on board, take me on board, quick!' But dey said: 'No, indeed; you wouldn't come up here before, you swim now!'

"He look over his shoulder an' he seen dat shark a-comin' an' he let hisself out. Fust it was de man an' den it was de shark, an' den it was de man again, dat away, my bruddren, plum to de promised land. Dat am de blessed troof I'm a-tellin' you dis minute. But what do you t'ink was a-waitin' for him on de odder shore when he got dere? A horrible, awful lion, my bruddren, was a-stan'in' dere on de shore, a-lashin' his sides wid his tail, an' a-roarin' away fit to devour dat poor nigger de minit he git on de shore.

"Well, he war powerful scared den, he don't know what he gwine to do. If he stay in de water de shark eat him up; if he go on shore de lion eat him up; he dunno what to do. But he put his trust in de Lord, an' went for de shore. Dat lion he give a fearful roar an' bound for him; but, my bruddren, as sure as you live an' breeve, dat horrible, awful lion he jump clean ober dat pore feller's head into de water; an' de shark eat de lion. But, my bruddren, don't you put your trust in no such circumstance; dat pore man he done git saved, but I tell you de Lord ain't a-gwine to furnish a lion fo' every nigger!"

HE WANTED TO KNOW
ANONYMOUS

Early one moonlight morning, in the city of London, a man was vainly trying to find his home, but being unable to locate it he called upon the services of a passer-by.

"Hey! M-m-mister (hic), will you take me to twenty-two?"

"Number twenty—Why you are standing right in front of it!"

"Oh, no you d-d-don't,—that's two-two, two-two!"

"Why, no, it's twenty-two."

"Say, you can't fool me. 'Nuther fellow tried to d-d-do that. He-he-he told me the other side of the street was (hic) on this side,—an' 'tisn't,—s-sit's over there. Please t-t-take me (hic) to twenty-two, will you?"

The man walked him around the block and back again.

"Now, then, get out your key. I must be going."

"Say, it was m-m-mighty (hic) jolly of you to bring me all this l-l-long way ho-ho-home, old chap!"

"That's all right. Now get your key,—hurry up."

"I'm ever so much obliged to you for bringing me all this long way ho-ho-home."

"That's all right. I must go now. Good-night."

The man had walked but a little distance when he heard his friend trying to whistle to him.

"Hey! (Tries to whistle). C-co-come here, I want ter speak to you. Now d-d-don't get mad (hic), old chap, it's important."

"Well, what do you want?"

"I just want to (hic) tell you how much obliged I'm to you for bringing me all this long way home."

"You had better go to bed now, so good-night."

"Hold up, old chap, you're a-a-a—would you mind telling me what your name is?"

Here the clock in St. Paul's struck two.

"My name—is St. Paul."

"Good enough, Miss Saint 'All. Much obliged to you for bring—me——"

"Never mind, good-night."

"Hey! Hi! (Tries to whistle). Mister Saint 'All—Miss Saint P-all, co-co-come here, I want to ask (hic) you something."

"What!"

"Old f-f-friend, I d-d-d-d-didn't mean that, Misser Saint Faull,—I just want to ask you a persh-pershonal question, Mis-Mis——"

"Well, what is it?"

"Misser Saint Paul, would you mind telling me whether you ever got answers to those letters you wrote to the Ephesians?"

AN OPPORTUNITY
ANONYMOUS

I dropt into the post-office this morning for my mail, and just inside the door I found a little boy crying very bitterly. Naturally I asked him the cause of his trouble, and lifting his tear-stained face to mine he said:

"I had two quarters, and a feller come along just now and took one away from me."

"What!" said I, "right here in the post-office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, why didn't you tell some one?"

"I did; I hollered, 'Help! help!'" (Said very weakly.)

"Well," I said, "is that as loud as you can holler?"

"Yes, sir."

So I took the other quarter.

GAPE-SEED
ANONYMOUS

A farmer, walking the streets of one of our big cities, looked through a window at a lot of men writing very rapidly on typewriters; and as he stood at the door with his mouth open, one of the men called out to him, "Do you wish to buy some gape-seed?" Passing on a short distance, he asked a man what the business was of the men he had just seen in the office he had passed. He was told that they wrote letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of documents. The farmer returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was made; one of the conditions being that the scribe should write just what the farmer told him to, or he should receive no pay. The man said he was ready, and the farmer dictated as follows:

"Dear wife," and then asked, "Have you got that down?"

"Yes; go on."

"I went for a ride the other day—have you got that down?"

"Yes; go on, go on."

"And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon—have you got that down?"

"Yes, yes, long ago; go on."

"Why, how fast you write!—And I got into the wagon, and sat down, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand—have you got that down?"

"Yes, long ago; go on."

"Dear me, how fast you write! I never saw your equal.—And I said to the old mare, 'Go 'long,' and I jerked the reins pretty hard—have you got that down?"

"Yes; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter."

"Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, 'Go 'long, you old jade! go 'long'—have you got that down?"

"Yes, indeed, you pestiferous fellow; go on."

"And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her——" (continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible).

"Hold on there! I have written two pages of 'licked her,' and I want the rest of the letter."

"Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked——" (continuing to repeat these words with great rapidity).

"Do go on with your letter; I have several pages of 'she kicked.'"

(The farmer clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.)

The scribe jumps up from the typewriter.

"Write it down! write it down!"

"I can't!"

"Well, then, I won't pay you."

(The scribe, gathering up his papers.) "What shall I do with all these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense?"

"You might use them in doing up your gape-seed! Good-day!"

LARIAT BILL
ANONYMOUS

"Well, stranger, 'twas somewhere in 'sixty-nine
I wore runnin' the 'Frisco fast express;
An' from Murder Creek to Blasted Pine,
Were nigh onto eighteen mile, I guess.
The road were a down-grade all the way,
An' we pulled out of Murder a little late,
So I opened the throttle wide that day,
And a mile a minute was 'bout our gait.

"My fireman's name was Lariat Bill,
A quiet man with an easy way,
Who could rope a steer with a cowboy's skill,
Which he had learned in Texas, I've heard him say:
The coil were strong as tempered steel,
An' it went like a bolt from a crossbow flung.
An' arter Bill changed from saddle to wheel,
Just over his head in the cab it hung.

"Well, as I were saying, we fairly flew
As we struck the curve at Buffalo Spring,
An' I give her full steam an' put her through,
An' the engine rocked like a living thing;
When all of a sudden I got a scare—
For thar on the track were a little child!
An' right in the path of the engine there
She held out her little hands and smiled!

"I jerked the lever and whistled for brakes,
The wheels threw sparks like a shower of gold;
But I knew the trouble a down-grade makes,
An' I set my teeth an' my flesh grew cold.
Then Lariat Bill yanked his long lasso,
An' out on the front of the engine crept—
He balanced a moment before he threw,
Then out in the air his lariat swept!"

He paused. There were tears in his honest eyes;
The stranger listened with bated breath.
"I know the rest of the tale," he cries;
"He snatched the child from the jaws of death!
'Twas the deed of a hero, from heroes bred,
Whose praises the very angels sing!"
The engineer shook his grizzled head,
And growled: "He didn't do no sich thing.

"He aimed at the stump of a big pine tree,
An' the lariat caught with a double hitch,
An' in less than a second the train an' we
Were yanked off the track an' inter the ditch!
'Twere an awful smash, an' it laid me out,
I ain't forgot it, and never shall;
Were the passengers hurt? Lemme see—about—
Yes, it killed about forty—but saved the gal!"

THE CANDIDATE
BY BILL NYE

The heat and the venom of each political campaign bring back to my mind with wonderful clearness the bitter and acrimonious war, and the savage factional fight, which characterized my own legislative candidacy in what was called the Prairie Dog District of Wyoming, about ten years ago.

I hesitated about accepting the nomination because I knew that vituperation would get up on its hind feet and annoy me greatly, and, indeed, this turned out to be the case.

In due time I was nominated, and one evening my heart swelled when I heard a campaign band coming up the street, trying to see how little it could play and still draw its salary. The band was followed by men with torches, and speakers in carriages. A messenger was sent into the house to tell me that I was about to be waited upon by my old friends and neighbors, who desired to deliver to me their hearty endorsement, and a large willow-covered two-gallon Godspeed as a mark of esteem.

The spokesman, as soon as I had stept out on my veranda, mounted the improvised platform previously erected, and after a short and debilitated solo and chorus by the band, said as follows, as near as I can now recall his words:

"Mr. Nye—

"Sir:—We have read with pain the open and venomous attacks of the foul and putrid press of our town, and come here to-night to vindicate by our presence your utter innocence as a man, as a fellow citizen, as a neighbor, as a father, mother, brother or sister.

"No one could look down into your open face, and deep, earnest lungs, and then doubt you as a man, as a fellow citizen, as a neighbor, as a father, mother, brother, or sister. You came to us a poor man, and staked your all on the growth of this town. We like you because you are still poor. You can not be too poor to suit us. It shows that you are not corrupt.

"Mr. Nye, on behalf of this vast assemblage (tremulo), I am glad that you are POOR!!!"

Mr. Limberquid then said:

"Sir:—What do we care for the vilifications of the press—a press hired, venial, corrupt, reeking in filth and oozy with the slime of its own impaired circulation, snapping at the heels of its superiors, and steeped in the reeking poison and pollution of its own shop-worn and unmarketable opinions?

"What do we care that homely men grudge our candidate his symmetry of form and graceful, upholstered carriage? What do we care that calumny crawls out of its hole, calumniates him a couple of times and then goes back?

"We like him for the poverty he has made. Our idea in running him for the Legislature is to give him a chance to accumulate poverty, and have some saved up for a rainy day."

Several people wept here, and wiped their eyes on their alabaster hands. The band then played, "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and yielding to the pressing demands of the populi, I made a few irrelevant, but low, passionate remarks, as follows:

"Fellow Citizens and Members of the Band:—We are not here, as I understand it, solely to tickle our palates with the twisted doughnuts of our pampered and sin-curst civilization, but to unite and give our pledges once more to the support of the best men. In this teacup of foaming and impervious cider from the Valley of the Jordan I drink to the success of the best men. Fellow citizens and members of the band, we owe our fealty to the old party. Let us cling to the old party as long as there is any juice in it and vote for its candidates. Let us give our suffrages to men of advanced thought who are loyal to their party but poor. Gentlemen, I am what would be called a poor but brainy man. When I am not otherwise engaged you will always find me engaged in thought. I love the excitement of following an idea and chasing it up a tree. It is a great pleasure for me to pursue the red-hot trail of a thought or the intellectual spoor of an idea. But I do not allow this habit to interfere with politics. Politics and thought are radically different. Why should man think himself weak on these political matters when there are men who have made it their business and life study to do the thinking for the masses?

"This is my platform. I believe that a candidate should be poor; that he should be a thinker on other matters, but leave political matters and nominations to professional political ganglia and molders of primaries who have given their lives and the inner coating of their stomachs to the advancement of political methods by which the old, cumbersome and dangerous custom of defending our institutions with drawn swords may be superseded by the modern and more attractive method of doing so with overdrawn salaries.

"Fellow Citizens and Members of the Band:—In closing let me say that you have seen me placed in the trying position of postmaster for the past year. For that length of time I have stood between you and the government at Washington. I have assisted in upholding the strong arm of the government, and yet I have not allowed it to crush you. No man here to-night can say that I have ever, by word or deed, revealed outside the office the contents of a postal card addrest to a member of my own party or held back or obstructed the progress of new and startling seeds sent by our representative from the Agricultural Department. I am in favor of a full and free interchange of interstate red-eyed and pale beans, and I favor the early advancement and earnest recognition of the merits of the highly offensive partizan. I thank you, neighbors and band (husky and pianissimo), for this gratifying little demonstration. Words seem empty and unavailing at this time. Will you not accept the hospitality of my home? Neighbors, you are welcome to these halls. Come in and look at the family album."

ONE AFTERNOON
ANONYMOUS

The events narrated in the following story take place about the middle of the twentieth century. At that date the institution known as the department store had reached its full development. There was not a single article of any kind that could not be purchased at one of these mammoth emporiums. It is well to bear this fact in mind, for the whole action of this story takes place under the roof of Sniggle Scooper's Department Store.

Scene the First. When Charlie Hussel entered Sniggle Scooper's refreshment department on that beautiful summer afternoon, he had no more idea of getting married than most millionaires have of paying full taxes on all their property. Charlie sat down at the counter and ordered a plain soda. He had been at the club the night before and his nerves were somewhat unstrung. While waiting for his soda he noticed a young lady by his side toying with an ice cream soda marked down from seven cents to four and a half. She was as fair as a poet's dream and the young man's heart beat tumultuously within him as he gazed at her. He longed for an opportunity of speaking to her and at last it came. She dropt her purse,—whether by accident I leave you to conjecture. Picking up the pocketbook our hero handed it to the young lady with a bow. She took the pocketbook, but returned the bow.

"Thank you," she murmured; "you are very kind."

"No," said he, "I am not kind. I'm a selfish brute!"

"Then why did you trouble yourself to pick up my purse?"

"Because, to tell the truth, I wanted to hear your voice."

"And now that you have heard it?"

"I wish I could hear it always. Consent to be my wife. You love me, do you not?"

"Yes! What is your name?"

"Charlie Hussel,—and yours, dear?"

"Mildred Uptodate. Now, Charlie, you must ask father's consent."

"All right, Mabel. There is a telephone on the next floor. Come along and I'll ask him."

They ascended by the escalator.

Scene the Second. Mr. Uptodate readily gave his consent, for he knew of Charlie Hussel in a business way.

"Now, Mildred, let us set the time for the wedding. It is now five minutes after one. Suppose we say four o'clock?"

"Oh, dear, no, I can't possibly get ready before to-morrow afternoon."

"Of course you can. Why, you can get everything you need right here in this store."

"Well, Charlie, if you insist, I suppose I must yield. But it seems a terribly short engagement."

"Yes, sweetheart, but then our married life will be so much longer. Run along, now, darling, and get your wedding-gown, while I get a suit of clothes and attend to the license. Meet me in the chapel on the top floor at half past four sharp."

At the appointed hour the happy couple were made one by the department store clergyman. A few minutes later they were seated in the café enjoying their wedding dinner. How happy they were as they planned for the future!

Scene the Third. Dinner was over and the happy pair went hand-in-hand toward the transportation department to arrange for their wedding tour. As they passed a bargain counter, the bride exclaimed rapturously:

"O Charlie, I see some lovely bargains over there. Do let me have two dollars."

A moment later the proud husband was watching his wife as with the ease born of long practise she fought her way through the crowd and reached the counter. After a little while she returned waving triumphantly a folded paper, exclaiming:

"Wasn't I lucky? I got the last one they had."

"What is it?"

"Why, don't you know? It's a divorce!"

The young man grew pale.

"I thought," he said, "you loved me."

"Why, of course I love you, but I simply couldn't resist such a bargain as that."

She pointed to a sign. Charlie looked at it and read:

THIS DAY ONLY!
Our Regular Divorces Marked Down
From $2.75 to $1.69

NOT IN IT
ANONYMOUS

They built a church at his very door—
"He wasn't in it."
They brought him a scheme for relieving the poor—
"He wasn't in it."
Let them work for themselves, as he had done,
They wouldn't ask help from any one
If they hadn't wasted each golden minute—
"He wasn't in it."
So he passed the poor with haughty tread—

When men in the halls of virtue met
He saw their goodness without regret;
Too high the mark for him to win it—
"He wasn't in it."
A carriage crept down the street one day—
"He was in it."
The funeral trappings made a display—
"He was in it."
St. Peter received him with book and bell;
"My friend, you have purchased a ticket to—well,
Your elevator goes down in a minute."
"He was in it!"

A TWILIGHT IDYL
BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

One summer evening, Mr. Ellis Henderson, a popular young man, went out walking with two of the sweetest girls in town. Mr. Henderson wore a little straw hat with a navy blue band, a cutaway coat, a pair of white trousers, a white vest, a buttonhole bouquet, and fifteen cents. The evening was very hot, and as they walked, they talked about the baseball match, the weather, and sunstrokes. By and by one of the young ladies gave a delicate little shriek.

"OO-oo! What a funny sign!"

"Ha—yes," said Mr. Henderson, in troubled tones, looking gently but resolutely at the wrong side of the street.

"How funny it is spelled; see, Ethel."

"Why," said Ethel, "it is spelled correctly. Isn't it, Mr. Henderson?"

"Hy—why—aw—why, yes, to be sure," said Mr. Henderson, staring at a window full of house-plants.

"Why, Mr. Henderson," said Elfrida, "how can you say so? Just see, 'i—c—e, ice, c—r double e—m, creem'; that's not the way to spell cream."

And Mr. Henderson, who was praying harder than he ever prayed before that an earthquake might come along and swallow up either himself or all the ice-cream parlors in the United States, looked up at the chimney of the house and said:

"That? Oh, yes, yes; of course, why certainly. How very much cooler it has grown within the past few minutes. That cool wave from Manitoba is nearing us once more."

He took out his handkerchief and swabbed a face that would scorch an iceberg brown in ten minutes.

"Is it true, Mr. Henderson," asked Ethel, "that soda fountains sometimes explode?"

"Oh, frequently," said he, "and they scatter death and destruction everywhere. In some of our Eastern cities they have been abolished by law,—and they ought to do the same thing here! Why, in New York, all the soda fountains have been removed far outside the city limits and are now located side by side with powder houses."

"I am not afraid of them," said Ethel, "and I don't believe they are a bit dangerous."

"Nor I," echoed Elfrida, "I would not be afraid to walk up to one and stand by it all day. Why are you so afraid of them, Mr. Henderson?"

"Because once I had a fair, sweet young sister blown to pieces by one of those terrible engines of destruction while she was drinking at it, and I can not look at one without growing faint."

"How do they make soda water, Mr. Henderson?"

He was about to reply that it was composed chiefly of dirt and poison, when Ethel read aloud four ice-cream signs, and said, "How comfortable and happy all those people look in there."

Then young Mr. Henderson, who had been clawing at his hair, and tearing off his necktie and collar, and pawing the air, shouted in tones of wild frenzy:

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! Come in; come in and gorge yourselves. Everybody come in and eat up a whole week's salary in fifteen minutes. Set 'em up! Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, pineapple, raspberry, lemon, peach, apricot, tutti frutti, nesselrode pudding, water-ice, cake and sherbet. Set 'em up! The treat's on me. Oh, yes, I can stand it. Ha, ha! I'm Astorbilt in disguise. Oh, yes; it doesn't cost anything to take an evening walk! Put out your frozen pudding! Ha, ha, ha!"

They carried him home to his boarding house, and put him to bed, and sent for his physician. He is not yet out of danger, but will recover. The exact trouble is a mystery to the doctor, but he thinks it must be hydrosodia, as the sight of a piece of ice throws the patient into the wildest and most furious paroxysms.

LAVERY'S HENS
ANONYMOUS

Michael Lavery, a thrifty Irishman, lived in a small cottage, on Devarsey Street, South Side, Chicago. It had no yard in front, and the rear was ditto. It had a cellar, however, and it occurred to Lavery that he might make something out of it by using it as a hen-house; but one cold night, during the following winter, the water-pipes burst, flooded the cellar, and drowned the chickens. Friends of Lavery told him the city would make good his loss if he made proper application. So Mr. Lavery went down to the city hall, and entering the room of the clerk, said:

"Good marnin'. Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"What's that?"

"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"What's that?"

"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"The water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?"

"Yis, sir."

"Well, you step into the next room and see the mayor. You will find him at his desk; tell him what you want."

"All right, sir, I will." (Exit Lavery to next room.)

"Good marnin'. Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

(Gruffly.) "What, sir?"

"Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"What's that?"

(Very loud.) "Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"I don't understand one word you say, sir!"

(Very softly and sarcastically, and working up into loud voice.) "Me name is Michael Lavery, and I live in Devarsey Street, on the South Side, and I kape chickens in me cellar, and the water came in and drowned thim; what'll I do?"

"The water came in and drowned your chickens; what will you do?"

"Yis, sir."

"Well I can do nothing for you, so good-morning, sir!"

(Clerk whispers to Lavery as he is passing out.) "Well, Mr. Lavery, what did he say to you?"

"Kape ducks!"

LISP
ANONYMOUS

Thome folks thay I listhp,
But then I don't perthieve it.
Juth listhen while I call the cat:
"Here Pusthy! Pusthy! Pusthy!"
Now thee I don't listhp.

THEY MET BY CHANCE
ANONYMOUS

They met by chance,
They had never met before.
They met by chance,
And she was stricken sore.

They never met again,
Don't want to, I'll allow!
They met but once:
'Twas a freight-train and a cow!

THE BRIDEGROOM'S TOAST
ANONYMOUS

(Speaks while seated.) "I know a story,—what? (Laughs.) I know another story,—eh? Oh, don't ask me. I never made a speech in my life. I am willing to do anything to make you fully enjoy—(This is broken by applause, which the reader may imitate by rapping on a chair, or on a table.) I will only make a fool of myself—(Attempting to get up. More applause. Sits down again.) I would rather not. (After much difficulty and persuasion he rises to his feet and begins.) Ladies and gentlemen, I have been suddenly called upon to propose a toast, which I think you will admit,—I am suddenly called upon,—very suddenly,—to propose and—(Sits down. More applause. Rises again.) Ladies and gentlemen, you are very kind (clears throat) and I will do my best, and I only hope that unaccustomed as I am to public houses,—speaking,—I sometimes find I have some difficulty in the,—of course I don't mean to say,—I don't mean to say what I mean when I mean what I say! At all events, ladies and gentlemen, I am very, very much obliged for the kind remarks in which you have drunk my health. (Sits down. Rises again.) I am called upon to propose a toast (makes a motion as if someone has thrown something at him from behind striking him on the head) upon—to propose a toast, but have forgotten it. Considering it is the most important toast of the evening you will understand—(Aside: 'What is the toast?')—the toast of the ladies. Of course we all know (runs his hand up and down the back of the chair) whatever may be said against them,—whatever people may say about the ladies, there is no doubt the ladies are really a very excellent—institution! I don't agree with those people who—I think, I say, that far from being a uniform success they are the reverse. I am bold enough to say, I don't agree that they are very nearly as good as we are. I know (again he is hit in the back) there are few drink the health of the army and navy,—I mean ladies. Shakespeare says that 'when a woman' (hit again)—I had it just now. Shakespeare says, 'When a woman,'—oh, yes, the immortal bard says, 'We won't go home till morning!'" (Sits down in great confusion.)

REHEARSING FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS
BY STANLEY HUNTLEY

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Spoopendyke, opening the book and assuming the correct dramatic scowl—"now my dear, we'll rehearse our parts for Specklewottle's theatricals. I'm to be Hamlet and you're to be the queen, and we want this thing to go off about right. The hardest part we have to play together is where I accuse you of poisoning my father, and we'd better try that until we get it perfect. I'll commence:

"Now, mother, what's the matter?"

"Well, I was thinking whether I had better wear my black silk or my maroon suit. Do queens wear——"

"Will you be kind enough to tell me what pack of cards you got that idea of a queen from? Do you suppose the queen sent for Hamlet to get his opinion about bargains in dry-goods? When I say that you must say, 'Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended!'"

"Oh, I understand, I thought you asked me what I was thinking about. I didn't know you had commenced to play. Try it again."

"Well you be careful this time, this is a play, this is. Think you know the difference between a play and a bankrupt sale? Know the distinction between a play and a millinery-shop opening? Now, I'll begin again and you try to do it decently."

"Now, mother, what's the matter!"

"There's nothing the matter now; go on, dear. I understand it now."

"Say it, can't ye! Haven't ye studied this business? Don't ye know your part?"

"What shall I say, dear?"

"Say! Sing a hymn! If you don't know your part, get off a psalm! Didn't I tell you what to say? Look here. Have you ever read this play? Have you conceived any kind of a notion of what it's all about?"

"Why, yes, you come in and stab Mr. Specklewottle behind the ears and I scream. Isn't that right, dear?"

"Hear her! Stab Specklewottle behind the ears! That is all right; now you scream! Scream, why don't you? You know so much about your measly part, why don't you play it?"

"We-e-e-e-e! I knew I could do it right as soon as you showed me how. Will that do?"

"Oh, that was queenly! Just do that again! Four of those dramatic efforts will make this play the greatest of modern entertainments! Do it once more!"

"It hurts my throat. Can't we make it do with one scream, dear?"

"Mrs. Spoopendyke, there's been some mistake made in this thing. You should have been cast for Ophelia. That was the part intended for you."

"I would just as soon play it. What does he do?"

"He was an idiot from his birth and afterward went crazy. That was the part for you."

"Then I'd rather be queen. Now, dear, let's commence all over and I'll do it right this time."

"You can't do it worse. I'll try it once more, just to see what kind of foolishness you can work off."

"Now, mother, what's the matter?"

"We-e-e-e, Hamlet, oh, Hamlet! We-e-e-e-e!"

"Turn it off! Be quick and break off the end! What's the matter?"

"We-e-e-e-e!"

"What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"We-e-e-e-e-e! My dear, you are just splendid as Hamlet. You should have been an actor."

"Will ye ever shut up? Who ever told ye to yell like that? Don't ye know anything at all scarcely? Think Hamlet's a lunatic asylum? Got some kind of a notion that the queen's a fog-horn? Where'd ye get your idea of this thing, anyway?"

"I did just as you told me, dear. You said I was to scream when you asked me what the matter was. Didn't I do it right?"

"Oh, that was right! You struck the keynote of high art both times! With that yell and your knowledge of the text all you want now is a fire and a free list to be a theater with a restaurant attachment! Such talent as that can't be wasted on any cheap Shakespeare plays while I've got the money and influence to get you a job in the legitimate circus!" And Mr. Spoopendyke bolted from the house, thoroughly disgusted with private theatricals.

By permission of The Brooklyn Eagle.

THE V-A-S-E
BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE

Far from the crowd they stood apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown,—

The Gotham Millions fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the Soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

---

Long they worshiped, but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because
I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

And then each nose was a sight to see
Turned up in contempt at the other three.

PAPA AND THE BOY
BY J. L. HARBOUR

Charming as is the merry prattle of innocent childhood, it is not particularly agreeable at about one o'clock in the morning. There are young and talkative children who have no more regard for your feelings or for the proprieties of life than to open their eyes with a snap at one or two in the morning, and to seek to engage you in enlivening dialog of this sort.

"Papa."

You think you will pay no heed to the imperative little voice, hoping that silence on your part will keep the youngster quiet; but again that boy of three pipes out sharply:

"Papa!"

"Well?" you say.

"You 'wake, papa?"

"Yes."

"So's me."

"Yes, I hear that you are," you say with cold sarcasm. "What do you want?"

"Oh! nuffin."

"Well, lie still and go to sleep then."

"I isn't s'eepy, papa."

"Well, I am, young man."

"Is you? I isn't—not a bit. Say, papa, papa! If you was wich what would you buy me?"

"I don't know—go to sleep."

"Wouldn't you buy me nuffin?"

"I guess so; now you——"

"What, papa?"

"Well, a steam engine, may be; now you go right to sleep."

"With a bell that would ring, papa?"

"Yes, yes; now you——"

"And would the wheels go wound, papa?"

"Oh! yes (yawning). Shut your eyes now, and——"

"And would it go choo, choo, choo, papa?"

"Yes, yes; now go to sleep."

"Say, papa."

No answer.

"Papa!"

"Well, what now?"

"Is you 'fraid of the dark?"

"No" (drowsily).

"I isn't either. Papa!"

"Well?"

"If I was wich I'd buy you somefin."

"Would you?"

"Yes; I'd buy you some ice-cweam and some chocolum drops and a toof brush and panties wiv bwaid on like mine, and a candy wooster, and——"

"That will do. You must go to sleep now."

Silence for half a second, then—

"Papa! papa!"

"Well, what now?"

"I want a jink."

"No, you don't."

"I do, papa."

Experience has taught you that there will be no peace until you have brought the "jink," and you scurry out to the bathroom in the dark for it, knocking your shins against everything in the room as you go.

"Now I don't want to hear another word from you to-night," you say, as he gulps down a mouthful of the water he didn't want. Two minutes later he says:

"Papa!"

"See here, laddie, papa will have to punish you if——"

"I can spell 'dog,' papa."

"Well, nobody wants to hear you spell at two o'clock in the morning."

"B-o-g—dog; is that right?"

"No, it isn't. But nobody cares if——"

"Then it's d-o-g, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes; now you lie right down and go to sleep instantly."

"Then I'll be a good boy, won't I, papa?"

"Yes; you'll be the best boy on earth. Good-night, dearie."

"Papa!"

"Well, well! What now?"

"Is I your little boy?"

"Yes, yes; of course."

"Some mans haven't got any little boys; but you have, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Don't you wish you had two, free, nine, 'leben, twenty-six, ninety-ten, free hundred little boys?"

The mere possibility of such a remote and contingent calamity so paralyzes you that you lie speechless for ten minutes during which you hear a yawn or two in the little bed by your side, a little figure rolls over three or four times, a pair of heels fly into the air once or twice, a warm, moist little hand reaches out and touches your face to make sure that you are there, and the boy is asleep with his heels where his head ought to be.

THE OBSTRUCTIVE HAT IN THE PIT
BY F. ANSTEY

Scene: The Pit of a London theatre during Pantomime Time.

An Overheated Matron (to her husband)—"Well, they don't give you much room in 'ere, I must say. Still, we done better than I expected, after all that crushing. I thought my ribs was gone once—but it was on'y the umbrella's. You pretty comfortable where you are, eh, father?"

Father—"Oh, I'm right enough, I am."

Jimmy (their small boy with a piping voice)—"If father is it's more nor what I am. I can't see, mother, I can't!"

Mother—"Lor' bles' the boy! there ain't nothen to see yet; you'll see well enough when the curting goes up. (Curtain rises on opening scene.) Look, Jimmy, ain't that nice, now? All them himps, dancin' round and real fire comin' out of the pot—which I 'ope it's quite safe—and there's a beautiful fairy just come on drest so grand, too!"

Jimmy (whimpering)—"I can't see no fairy—nor yet no himps—no nothen!"

Mother (annoyed)—"Was there ever such an aggravating boy? Set quiet, do, and don't fidget, and look at the hactin'!"

Jimmy—"I tell yer I can't see no hactin', mother. It ain't my fault—it's this lady in front of me, with the 'at."

Mother—"Father, the pore boy says he can't see where he is, 'cause of a lady's 'at in front."

Father—"Well, I can't 'elp the 'at, can I? He must put up with it, that's all!"

Mother—"No—but I thought, if you wouldn't mind changing places with him; you're taller than him."

Father—It's always the way with you—never satisfied, you ain't! Well, pass the boy across! I'm for a quiet life, I am (changing seats). Will this do for you?" (He settles down immediately behind a very large, furry hat which he dodges for some time.)

Father (suddenly)—"Blow the 'at."

Mother—"You can't wonder at the boy not seeing! P'r'aps the lady wouldn't mind taking it off, if you asked her?"

Father—"Ah! (touching the owner of the hat on the shoulder). Excuse me, mum, but might I take the liberty of asking you to kindly remove your 'at?" (The owner of the hat deigns no reply.)

Father (more insistently)—"Would you 'ave any objection to oblige me by taking off your 'at, mum? (Same result.) I don't know if you 'eard me, mum, but I've asked you twice, civil enough, to take that 'at of yours off. I'm playin' 'ide-and-seek be'ind it 'ere!" (No answer.)

Mother—"People didn't ought to be allowed in the Pit with sech 'ats! Callin' 'erself a lady, and settin' there in a great 'at and feathers like a 'ighlander's, and never answering no more nor a stuffed himage!"

Father (to the husband of the owner of the hat)—"Will you tell your good lady to take her 'at off, sir, please?"

The Owner of the Hat (to her husband)—"Don't you do nothing of the sort, Sam, or you'll 'ear of it!"

Mother—"Some people are perlite, I must say. Parties might be'ave as ladies when they come in the Pit! It's a pity her 'usband can't teach her better manners!"

Father—"'Im teach her! 'E knows better. 'E's got a Tartar there, 'e 'as!"

The Owner of the Hat—"Sam, are you going to set by and hear me insulted like this?"

Her Husband (turning round tremulously)—"I—I'll trouble you to drop making these personal allusions to my wife's 'at, sir. It's puffickly impossible to listen to what's going on on the stage, with all these remarks be'ind!"

Father—"Not more nor it is to see what's going on on the stage with that 'at in front! I paid 'arf-a-crown to see the Pantermime, I did; not to 'ave a view of your wife's 'at!.... 'ere, Maria, blowed if I can stand this 'ere game any longer. Jimmy must change places again, and if he can't see, he must stand up on the seat, that's all!" (Jimmy goes back and mounts upon the seat.)

A Pit-ite Behind Jimmy (touching Jimmy's father with an umbrella)—"Will you tell your little boy to set down, please, and not to block the view like this?"

Father—"If you can indooce that lady to take off her 'at, I will, but not before. Stay where you are, Jimmy."

The Pit-ite Behind—"Well, I must stand myself then, that's all. I mean to see somehow!" (He rises.)

People Behind (sternly)—"Set down there, will yer?" (He resumes his seat expostulating.)

Jimmy—"Father, the man behind is a-pinching of my legs!"

Father—"Will you stop pinching my little boy's legs. He ain't doing you no 'arm, is he?"

The Pinching Pit-ite—"Let him sit down, then!"

Father—"Let the lady take her 'at off!"

Murmurs Behind—"Order there! Set down! Put that boy down! Take off that 'at! Silence in front there! Turn 'em out! Shame!..."

The Husband of the Owner of the Hat (in a whisper to his wife)—"Take off the blessed 'at, and 'ave done with it, do!"

The Owner of the Hat—"What, now? I'd sooner die in the 'at!" (An attendant is called.)

Attendant—"Order, there, gentlemen, please, unless you want to get turned out! No standing allowed on the seats; you're disturbing the performance 'ere, you know!" (Jimmy is made to sit down, and weeps silently; the hubbub subsides, and the Owner of the Hat triumphs.)

Mother—"Never mind, my boy, you shall have mother's seat in a minute. I dessay, if all was known, the lady 'as reasons for keeping her 'at on, pore thing!"

Father—"Ah, I never thought o' that. So she may. Very likely her 'at won't come off—not without her 'air!"

Mother—"Ah, well, then we mus'n't be 'ard on her."

The Owner of the Hat (removing the obstruction)—"I 'ope you're satisfied now, I'm sure?"

Father (handsomely)—"Better late nor never, mum, and we take it kind of you. Tho why you shouldn't ha' done it at fust, I dunno; for you look a deal 'ansomer without the 'at than what you did in it—don't she Maria?"

The Owner of the Hat (mollified)—"Sam, ask the gentleman behind if his boy would like a ginger-nut." (This olive-branch is accepted; compliments pass; cordiality is restored, and the pantomime then proceeds without any further disturbance in the audience.)

HULLO
BY S. W. FOSS

W'en you see a man in wo,
Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"
Say "Hullo" an' "How d'ye do?
How's the world a-usin' you?"
Slap the fellow on the back;
Bring your hand down with a whack;
Walk right up, an' don't go slow;
Grin an' shake, an' say "Hullo!"

Is he clothed In rags? Oh! sho;
Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"
Rags is but a cotton roll
Jest for wrappin' up a soul;
An' a soul is worth a true
Hale and hearty "How d'ye do?"
Don't wait for the crowd to go
Walk right up an' say "Hullo!"

When big vessels meet, they say
They saloot an' sail away.
Jest the same are you an' me
Lonesome ships upon a sea;
Each one sailin' his own log,
For a port behind the fog.
Let your speakin' trumpet blow;
Lift your horn an' cry "Hullo!"

Say "Hullo!" an' "How d'ye do?"
Other folks are good as you.
W'en you leave your house of clay
Wanderin' in the far away,
W'en you travel through the strange
Country t'other side the range,
Then the souls you've cheered will know
Who ye be, an' say "Hullo."

THE DUTCHMAN'S TELEPHONE
ANONYMOUS

"I guess I haf to gif up my delephone already," said an old citizen, as he entered the office of the company with a very long face.

"Why, what's the matter now?"

"Oh! eferytings. I got dot delephone in mine house so I could shpeak mit der poys in der saloon down town, und mit my relations in Springwells, but I haf to gif it up. I never haf so much droubles."

"How?"

"Vhell, my poy Shon, in der saloon, he rings der pell and calls me oop und says an old frent of mine vhants to see how she vorks. Dot ish all right. I say, 'Hello!' und he says, 'Come closer.' I goes closer und helloes again. Den he says, 'Shtand a little off.' I shtands a little off und yells vunce more, und he says, 'Shpeak louder.' I yells louder. I goes dot vhay for ten minutes, und den he says, 'Go to Texas, you old Dutchman!' You see?"

"Yes."

"Und den mein brudder in Springwells he rings der pell und calls me oop und says, 'How you vhas dis eafnings?' I says I vhas feeling like some colts, und he says, 'Who vhants to puy some goats?' I says, 'Colts—colts—colts!' und he answers, 'Oh! coats. I thought you said goats!' Vhen I goes to ask him ef he feels petter I hear a voice crying out, 'Vhat Dutchman is dot on dis line?' Den somepody answers, 'I doan' know, but I likes to punch his headt!' You see?"

"Yes."

"Vhell, somedimes my vhife vhants to shpeak mit me vhen I am down in der saloon. She rings mein pell und I says, 'Hello!' Nopody shpeaks to me. She rings again, und I says, 'Hello,' like dunder! Den der Central Office tells me to go aheadt, und den tells me holdt on, und den tells mein vhife dot I am gone avhay. I yells oudt, 'Dot ish not so,' und somepody says, 'How can I talk if dot old Dutchmans doan' keep shtill?' You see?"

"Yes."

"Und vhen I gets in bedt at night, somepody rings der pell like dear house vas on fire, and vhen I shumps oud und says, 'Hello,' I hear somepody saying, 'Kaiser, doan' you vhant to puy a dog?' I vhants no dog, und vhen I tells 'em so, I hear some peoples laughing, 'Haw! haw! haw!' You see?"

"Yes."

"Und so you dake it oudt, und vhen somepody likes to shpeak mit me dey shall come right avay to mein saloon. Oof my brudder ish sick he shall get better, und if somepody vhants to puy me a dog, he shall come vhere I can punch him mit a glub."

DOCTOR MARIGOLD
BY CHARLES DICKENS

I am a Cheap Jack, and my own father's name was Willum Marigold. It was in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was William, but my own father always consistently said, No it was Willum. On which point I content myself with looking at the argument this way: If a man is not allowed to know his own name in a free country, how much is he allowed to know in a land of slavery?

I was born on the Queen's highway, but it was the King's at that time. A doctor was fetched to my own mother by my own father, when it took place on a common; and in consequence of his being a very kind gentleman, and accepting no fee but a tea-tray, I was named Doctor, out of gratitude and compliment to him. There you have me. Doctor Marigold.

The doctor having accepted a tea-tray, you'll guess that my father was a Cheap Jack before me. You are right. He was. And my father was a lovely one in his time at the Cheap Jack work. Now I'll tell you what. I mean to go down into my grave declaring that, of all the callings ill-used in Great Britain, the Cheap Jack calling is the worst used. Why ain't we a profession? Why ain't we endowed with privileges? Why are we forced to take out a hawker's license, when no such thing is expected of the political hawkers? Where's the difference betwixt us? Except that we are Cheap Jacks and they are Dear Jacks, I don't see any difference but what's in our favor.

For look here! Say it's election-time. I am on the footboard of my cart in the market-place on a Saturday night. I put up a general miscellaneous lot. I say: "Now here, my free and independent voters, I'm going to give you such a chance as you never had in all your born days, nor yet the days preceding. Now I'll show you what I am a-going to do with you. Here's a pair of razors that'll shave you closer than the Board of Guardians; here's a flat-iron worth its weight in gold; here's a frying-pan artificially flavored with essence of beefsteaks to that degree that you've only got for the rest of your lives to fry bread and dripping in it, and there you are complete with animal food; here's a genuine chronometer watch in such a solid silver case that you may knock at the door with it when you come home late from a social meeting, and rouse your wife and family and save up your knocker for the post-man; and here's half a dozen dinner-plates that you may play the cymbals with to charm the baby when it's fractious. Stop. I'll throw you in another article, and I'll give you that, and its a rolling-pin, and if the baby can only get it well into its mouth when its teeth are coming, and rub the gums once with it, they'll come through double, in a fit of laughter equal to be tickled. Stop again! I'll throw you in another article, because I don't like the looks of you, for you haven't the appearance of buyers unless I lose by you, and because I'd rather lose than not take money to-night, and that article's a looking-glass in which you may see how ugly you look when you don't bid. What do you say now? Come! Do you say a pound? Not you, for you haven't got it. Do you say ten shillings? Not you, for you owe more to the tallyman. Well, then, I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll heap 'em all on the footboard of the cart—there they are! razors, flat-iron, frying-pan, chronometer watch, dinner-plates, rolling-pin, and looking-glass—take 'em all away for four shillings, and I'll give you sixpence for your trouble!" This is me, the Cheap Jack.

But on Monday morning, in the same market-place, comes the Dear Jack on the hustings—his cart—and what does he say? "Now, you free and independent voters, I am going to give you such a chance" (he begins just like me) "as you never had in all your born days, and that's the chance of sending myself to Parliament. Now I'll tell you what I am a-going to do for you. Here's the interests of this magnificent town promoted above all the rest of the civilized and uncivilized earth. Here's your railways carried, and your neighbors' railways jockeyed. Here's all your sons in the Post Office. Here's Britannia smiling on you. Here's the eyes of Europe on you. Here's uniwersal prosperity for you, repletion of animal food, golden corn-fields, gladsome homesteads, and rounds of applause from your own hearts, all in one lot, and that's myself. Will you take me as I stand? You won't! Well, then, I'll tell you what I'll do with you. Come now! I'll throw you in anything you ask for. There! Church-rates, abolition of church-rates, more malt tax, no malt tax, uniwersal education to the highest mark, or uniwersal ignorance to the lowest, total abolition of flogging in the army, or a dozen for every private once a month all round, Wrongs of Men or Right of Women—only say which it shall be, take 'em or leave 'em, and I'm of your opinion altogether, and the lot's your own on your own terms. There! You won't take it? Well, then, I'll tell you what I'll do with you. Come! You are such free and independent woters, and I am so proud of you—you are such a noble and enlightened constituency, and I am so ambitious of the honor and dignity of being your member, which is by far the highest level to which the wings of the human mind can soar—that I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll throw you in all public-houses in your magnificent town for nothing. Will that content you? It won't? You won't take the lot yet? Well, then, before I put the horse in and drive away, and make the offer to the next most magnificent town that can be discovered, I'll tell you what I'll do. Take the lot, and I'll drop two thousand pound in the streets of your magnificent town for them to pick up that can. Not enough? Now look here. This is the very farthest that I'm a-going to. I'll make it two thousand five hundred. And still you won't? Here, missis! Put the horse—No, stop half a moment, I shouldn't like to turn my back upon you, neither, for a trifle, I'll make it two thousand seven hundred and fifty pound. There! Take the lot on your own terms, and I'll count out two thousand seven hundred and fifty pound on the footboard of the cart, to be dropt in the streets of your magnificent town for them to pick up that can. What do you say? Come now! You won't do better, and you may do worse. You take it? Hooray! Sold again, and got the seat!"

THE RULING PASSION
BY WILLIAM H. SIVITER

She had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the stamp clerk's window with the same air that she would enter a dry-goods store.

"I would like to look at some stamps, please."

"What denomination do you want?"

"Denomination?"

"Yes. Is it for a letter or a newspaper?"

"Oh, I want to send a letter to my Uncle John; he's just moved to——"

"Then you need a two-cent stamp," said the clerk offering her one of that value.

"I hardly like that color!"

"That is a two-cent stamp, madam. Please stand aside, and let the gentleman behind you come up."

"But haven't you got them in any other color? I never did like that shade of red."

"There is only one color."

"That is strange. I'd think you'd keep them in different shades, so that there'd be some choice. You are sure you have none in a brighter red, or even in a different color—Nile green, or seal brown, or jubilee blue, for instance?"

"You can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like."

"Let me see them, please. Ah, that will do. I like that shade so much better. I'll take only one, if you please."

"If it's for a letter you'll need two. These are one-cent stamps and letter postage is two cents per ounce."

"Oh, I don't want to put two stamps on my letter; I don't think they will look well."

"It requires two cents to carry a letter, madam, and you must either put a two-cent stamp on or two ones. It won't go without. I must ask you to please hurry, for you are keeping a great many people away from the window."

"That's singular. I don't like the looks of two together. You are sure the other doesn't come in seal-brown, or——"

"No, madam; no!"

"Then I'll have to see if I can suit myself elsewhere."

And she departed.

THE DUTCHMAN'S SERENADE
ANONYMOUS

Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe!
Der moon dot can't be seen abofe.
Vake oud your eyes, and dough it's late,
I'll make you oud a serenate.

Der shtreet dot's kinder dampy vet,
Und dhere vas no goot blace to set;
My fiddle's getting oud of dune,
So blease get vakey wery soon.

O my lofe! my lofely lofe!
Am you avake up dere abofe,
Feeling sad and nice to hear
Schneider's fiddle shcrabin' near?

Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear,
Und try to saw of you kin hear
From dem bedclose vat you'm among,
Der little song I'm going to sung.

Oh, lady, vake! Get vake!
Und hear der tale I'll tell;
Oh, you vot's schleebin' sound ub dhere,
I like you pooty vell!

Your plack eyes dhem don't shine
Ven you'm ashleep—so vake!
(Yes, hurry ub und voke up quick,
For goodness cracious sake!)

My schveet inbatience, lofe!
I hobe you vill oxcuse;
I'm singing schveetly (dere, py Jinks!
Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)

Oh, putiful, schveet maid!
Oh, vill she ever voke?
Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere
Anoder shtring vent proke!)

Oh, say, old schleeby head!
(Now I vas gitting mad—
I'll holler now und I don't care
Uf I vake up her dad!)

I say, you schleeby, vake!
Vake out! Vake loose! Vake ub!
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!
Oh, cracious! do vake ub!

Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained
Und I looked shtoopid like a geese,
Vhen mit my fiddle I sneaked off
Dodging der rain und dot bolice!

WIDOW MALONE
BY CHARLES LEVER

Did you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone!
Oh, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in those parts:
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore;
In store;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the Crown
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'Twas known
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,
(How quare!
It's little for blushing they care
Down there.)
Put his arm round her waist,
Gave ten kisses at laste,
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
My own!"
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone!"

And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,—
For why?
But, "Lucius," says she,
"Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong;
And one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong,—
If for widows you die,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh;
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone!
Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

HIS LEG SHOT OFF
ANONYMOUS

You have all met him. He is the man with the funny story. As a listener he would be popular. If he would only keep quiet and listen to other people tell stories without attempting to emulate their ability he would be liked where he is now cordially disliked. But that doesn't suit his temperament. He will buttonhole you with his forefinger, and with an idiotic smile on his face say.

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! If I didn't just hear the funniest thing! Oh, but it was funny! Ha! ha! ha! You don't begin to know how funny it was! You see it was this way: A long time ago there was a war,—fighting,—fighting, you know,—between the North and South. Ha! ha! ha! There was a war, as I was saying, and they got fighting, and this man,—ha! ha! ha!—the funniest thing!—this man, Jim Jones,—you see it was this way,—it was in the war, you know,—between the North and South,—ha! ha!—and this man Jim Jones,—ha! ha! ha!—it is too funny for any thing,—it was too funny! Well, Jim Jones was fighting. He went into the battle one day, and that is the funny part of it. Along came a cannon-ball and took off his head! Ha! ha! ha! (Laugh here for two minutes; then the face gradually assumes an air of gravity.) No, it wasn't his head, it was his leg. It was funny just the same. Down he went to the ground. It stands to reason a man with one leg can't walk and go on fighting. So he just laid down in his tracks. Couldn't do anything else. Just then along came a battery,—you know that is cannons,—they have horses to drag them,—men can't pull those big, heavy cannons into battle. Well, you know, this man Jim Jones that had his leg shot off, he knew this man with the cannons,—ha! ha!—Oh, but it was funny! And he says to him, 'If you don't carry me to where a doctor is, my wife's a widow, that's all about it!' He knew his wife was a widow if he didn't get to where the doctor was. You know the doctors don't stay up where the soldiers are fighting in a battle,—they're back, away back, the doctors are. So this man with his leg shot off, he says, 'You've got to take me where a doctor is, or my wife's a widow, that's all about it!' Well, this neighbor of his didn't like to go back on an old friend,—ha! ha!—with his leg shot off,—this man that had his leg shot off early in the battle and couldn't go on fighting,—but he says to him: 'How am I to get you back there?' and he 'lowed he'd have to carry him. Well, with that he shouldered Jim Jones,—ha! ha!—threw him over his shoulder just like that, and away they went! (Laugh heartily here.) And that is where the joke came in,—along came a cannon-ball and took of his head! Not the man's head, but Jimmy Jones' head! But pshaw, the man didn't know anything about it. Along he went with Jimmy over his shoulder. Just then an officer came up. He says: 'Where are you going with that thing?' Well, the man didn't like to give a short answer. Soldiers are not allowed to give short answers to officers. He simply saluted and says: 'Well, it's this way: This man's an old neighbor of mine. He was coming into battle,—ha! ha!—and he 'lowed that a cannon-ball came along and took off his leg. He says if we don't take him to where a doctor is his wife's a widow and that's all about it,—and so,—ha! ha!—and so I'm just taking him back to where the doctor is, captain.' The captain looked at him a moment, and he says: 'Why you idiot, it isn't his leg, it's his head!' Then the man says,—not Jimmy Jones,—he had his head off and couldn't say anything,—'Oh, the confounded rascal, he told me it was his leg!'"

THE STUTTERING UMPIRE
BY THE KHAN

Oh, we had our share of trouble,
I'll tell you now the source,
The umpire that we sent for,
Well, he didn't come, of course.
Have you noticed, at the line-up
When everything's for fair,
The referee, the umpire,
That should be there, isn't there?

The crowd it grew impatient;
We heard their angry mutters.
We picked on Johnny Jimson,
Tho Johnny Jimson stutters;
But, still, he knows the game all right—
Indeed, he knows it all—
So in his place he hollered:
"Pup-pup-pup-play bub-ball!"

Jake Mingus was first batter,
Our county's favorite son;
He hit an' missed. Johnny yelled:
"Stuh-stuh-stuh-strike wu-one!"
Another ball went o'er the plate,
And Jakey's bat went whoo!
Then all the crowd heard Johnny shout:
"Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-two!"

The next one was a daisy,
It made the audience howl;
Jakey tapped it, Johnny yelled:
"Fow-ow-ow-ow-oul!"
And so the game went gaily,
A game a body likes,
Till Jack had called three balls on Jake
And also called two strikes.

The breathless crowd was anxious,
For this will tell the tale;
The pitcher tied himself in knots,
The catcher did not quail.
Whizz! went the ball—the rabble waits
The umpire's verdict, but
All that Johnny Jimson said
Was "Tut-tut-tut——"

Did he mean to say, "Tut-tut-take your base,"
Or else, "Tut-tut-three strikes?"
Just fix it up to suit yourself
As anybody likes,
It busted up our little game,
It was too utterly utter.
Don't try to be an umpire if
You stut-tut-tut-tutter.

THE MAN WHO WILL MAKE A SPEECH
ANONYMOUS

A man wearing passably good clothes and a look of mental anxiety entered a fashionable drug-store, and said to the clerk:

"Are you pretty well posted on big words?"

"Yes," said the clerk, "I know quite a large number of big words."

"Well, then," said the stranger, "here's the situation: Out where I live I am a pretty big gun, and when anything is going on they call on me for a speech. I made one on election day, another the same evening, and another the next morning, and now I'm laying the sleepers for a speech to eclipse them all."

"What sort of a speech?" asked the clerk.

"Political, of course. My other speeches were political, but were very plain. This time I want to get in some regular old twisters. For one thing I would declare this country in a state of—what do you call it?"

"Peace!"

"No, sir; I mean confusion, excitement, and so on. There's a word to signify it, but I can't speak it."

"Abject terrorism?"

"No—no. Its archany, or something of the kind."

"I guess you mean anarchy, don't you?"

"I do—I do! Bless me if I haven't been trying for a whole hour to get that word! That's the very thing. When called out I want to lead off with: 'Fellow citizens, the peace has flown, and arnica reigns supreme!' I guess that will knock them."

"You don't mean arnica—you mean anarchy."

"That's what I mean, of course, but every time I think anarchy I get it arnica, and I don't know but I will have to give up the speech."

"Why don't you write it down?"

The man took up a pen and wrote: "A-r-k-a-n-y." Then he said: "Peace has fled and arkany reigns in the land."

"I told you it was anarchy."

"That's so—that's so. This suspense is telling on my memory like a fit of illness. Now, then, a-n-a-r-k-y, anarky, and don't you forget it. You needn't say anything about my calling in here."

"Oh, that's all right. Over seven-eighths of the best speakers in town come to me for big words."

"Many thanks; and now, 'Fellow citizens, peace has fled far, far away, and arkany reigns——' Hold on, is that the right word?"

He halted at the door to examine the slip of paper, and after repeating the right word over several times he went on:

"A state of anchovy is upon us, and where will it end?"

As he walked up the street he was overheard to say:

"Arnica! Arnica! where will it end?"

CARLOTTA MIA
BY T. A. DALY

Giuseppe, da Barber, ees great for "mash,"
He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache,
Good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash.

W'enever Giuseppe ees walk on da street,
Da people dey talka "How nobby! How neat!
How softa da handa, haw smalla da feet."

He raisa hees hat, an' he shaka hees curls,
An' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls;
Oh, many da heart of da silly young girls
He gotta,
Yes playnta he gotta—
But notta—
Carlotta!

Giuseppe, da Barber, he maka da eye,
An' lika da steam-engine puffa an' sigh
For catcha Carlotta w'en she ees go by.

Carlotta she walka weeth her nose in da air,
An' look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare,
As eef she no see dere ees som'body dere.

Giuseppe, da Barber, he gotta da cash,
He gotta da clo'es an' da bigga mustache,
He gotta da silly young girls for da "mash."
But notta—
You bat my life, notta—
Carlotta;
I gotta!

THE VASSAR GIRL
BY WALLACE IRWIN

"Oh, Martha's back from Vassar,"
Said farmer James McCassar:
"O Martha, come into the house and mix a batch of bread."
But Martha's accents fluttered
As she murmured, as she stuttered,
"I have studied the satanic
Ways of bacilli organic,
And it throws me in a panic, pa, to mix a batch of bread."

Chorus
At Vassar-oh, at Vassar-oh,
That's what we learn at Vassar!
We love our Alma Mater so
We do not like to sass 'er.
We have a superstition
There's nothing like the damsel with the dear old Vassar V.

"Oh, Martha's back from Vassar,"
Said farmer James McCassar:
"O Martha, go out to the barn and milk the brindle cow."
But Martha cried: "Oh, bother!"
As she faced her poor old father,
"With golf I love to tussle
And with basket-ball to hustle—
But I haven't got the muscle to subdue the brindle cow."

Chorus
At Vassar-oh, at Vassar-oh,
That's what we learn at Vassar!
We love our Alma Mater so
We do not like to sass 'er.
We have a superstition
There's nothing like the damsel with the dear old Vassar V.

"Oh, Martha's home from Vassar!"
Cried the angry James McCassar:
"O Martha, take yer study-books and don't come home no more!"
So the maiden in contrition
Got a typist-girl's position,
Wed a millionaire named Harris
Who, lest poverty embarrass,
Made his wife a millionairess. And she's ne'er been heard of more.

Chorus
At Vassar-oh, at Vassar-oh,
That's what we learn at Vassar!
We love our Alma Mater so
We do not like to sass 'er.
Learning's road is rough and stony;
But for golden matrimony
There's nothing like the maiden with the dear old Vassar V.

From "Shame of the Colleges," Outing Publishing Co., by permission.

A SHORT SERMON
ANONYMOUS

(Delivered in usual singsong style of the conventional curate.) I am going to preach to you this morning, my friends, upon the young man who was sick of the palsy. Now, this young man was sick of the palsy. The palsy, as you are all aware, is a very terrible disease, a wasting scourge. And this young man was sick of the palsy. And the palsy, as you know, is strongly hereditary. It had been in his family. His father had been sick of the palsy, and his mother had been sick of the palsy, and they had all of them, in fact, been sick of the palsy. And this young man had been sick of the palsy. Yes, my dear friends, he had had it for years and years, and—he was sick of it.

A LANCASHIRE DIALECTIC SKETCH
(Tummy and Meary)
ANONYMOUS

Tummy and Meary wor barn to be wed, tha knaws. And th' neet afoor they were to be wed, Tummy he goes to Meary, and he says, "Meary, lass," he says, "I'se noonan barn to wed tha." "Oo isn't?" hoo says. "Nooa," says Tummy, "I isn't. I'se chaanged my mind." "Why, tha greeat thiek-heead," hoo says, "tha's allus a-chaangin' thy mind." "Ah, weel," say Tummy, "I ha' chaanged my mind, and that's enough for thee." Weel, tha knaws Meary didn't want for to loose Tummy, for she didn't knaw where she'd pick up another as good. Soa she tried all sooarts of waays for keepin' him on. First hood tried carneyin' an' cooaxin' of him, and when she found as cooaxin' weren't o' noa use hoo tried bully-raggin' him, and when she found as bully-raggin' weren't o' noa use, she tried stratagem—and that's a woman's last resource!

"Tummy," hoo says, "tho tha's a' love for me, I still ha' a gradely liking for thee, lad. And, tha sees, if tha gies me up, folks'll lay a' blame upo' thee. Noo, I'll tell tha what tha mun do. Tha mun gooa to th' church wi' me i' th' mornin', and when the parson says to thee, 'Wilt tha ha' Meary for to be thy wedded wife?' tha mun say, 'Yes, I will.' And when th' parson says to me, 'Meary, lass, will tha ha' Tummy for to be thy wedded husband?' I'll say, 'Noa, I weean't.' And then tha'll get off scot-free, tha seeas, and th' folk'll lay a' th' blame upo' me." Weel, Tummy, he were a coward at heart, and he didn't want Meary for to gooa aboot sayin' nasty things aboot him, and so he went—poor lad! And when they'd getten to' th' church i' th' mornin', parson he says to Tummy, "Tummy," he says, "wilt thou have Meary for to be thy wedded wife?" And Tummy, he speaks oot bold-like, "Aw! Ah will!" And soona then th' parson he turns to Meary, and he says, "Meary, lass, wilt thou have Tummy for to be thy wedded husband?" And Meary shoo up and shoo says, "Aw! Ah will!" Tummy says, "Nay, nay; that winnot dew. Tha was to say as tha wouldn't." "Aye, but," says Meary, "there's others can chaange their minds, Tummy, as weel as thee!" Sooa hoo gat him!

HIS BLACKSTONIAN CIRCUMLOCUTION
ANONYMOUS

"I received, this afternoon," said the bright-eyed, common-sense girl, the while a slight blush of maidenly coyness tinted her peach-hued cheeks, "a written proposal of marriage from Horace J. Pokelong, the rising young attorney, and——"

"Huh! that petrified dub!" jealously ejaculated the young dry-goods dealer, who had been hanging back because of his timidity and excessive adoration.

"He says," proceeded the maiden, gently ignoring the interruption, and reading aloud from the interesting document, "'I have carefully and comprehensively analyzed my feelings toward you, and the result is substantially as follows, to wit: I respect, admire, adore and love you, and hereby give, grant and convey to you my heart and all my interest, right and title in and to the same, together with all my possessions and emoluments, either won, inherited or in any other manner acquired, gained, anticipated or expected, with full and complete power to use, expend, utilize, give away, bestow or otherwise make use of the same, anything heretofore stated, exprest, implied or understood, in or by my previous condition, standing, walk, attitude or actions, to the contrary notwithstanding; and I furthermore——'"

"I—I——!" fairly shouted the listener, springing to his feet, and extending his arms. "Miss Brisk—Maud—I love you! Will you marry me?"

"Yes, I will!" promptly answered the lass, as she contentedly snuggled up in his encircling embrace. "And I'll reply to the ponderous appeal of that pedantic procrastinator with the one expressive slangism, 'Twenty-three!' I am yours, Clarence!"

KATRINA LIKES ME POODY VELL
ANONYMOUS

Somedimes ven I'm a-feeling bad,
Cause dings dey don'd go righd,
I gid so kinder awful sick,
Und lose my abbedide.
Und ven I go me to der house,
Und by dot daple sit,
Dot widdles makes me feel gwide bale,
Und I don'd kin ead a bit.

My head dot shbind arount unt rount,
Und my eyes dem look so vild,
Dot of my mudder she was dere,
She voodn't know her shild.
Dot is der dime Katrina comes,
Und nice vords she does dell,
Mit her heart a-busding oud mit loaf,
For she likes me poody vell.

She gifes me efery kind of dings
Dot she dinks will done me goot;
She cooks me shblendid sassage mead,
Und oder kinds of foot;
She ties vet rags arount my head
When dot begins to shvell,
Und soaks my feet mit Brandred's bills,
For she likes me poody vell.

She sings me nice und poody songs,
Mit a woice dot's shweed und glear,
Und says, "Dot of I vas to die
She voodn't leef a year."
Of dot aind so, or if id is,
I don'd vas going to dell;
But dis much I am villing to shwore—
She likes me poody vell.

AT THE RESTAURANT
ANONYMOUS

Waiter—"Well, ladies, what will it be?"

Mrs. Etamine—"I don't know what you girls are going to take, but I can't eat a thing—unless it's ice-cream."

Miss De Beige—"I'm sure I don't want anything except cream. I never can eat in this hot weather."

Miss Satine—"I'd like some ice-cream, if they've got any real pistache."

Miss Foulard—"Oh, I wouldn't trust them to give me pistache here! I don't believe they know what pistache is. I'm going to take chocolate."

Mrs. E.—"I'd take chocolate, too, only it's so heavy all by itself."

Miss De B.—"Why don't you take it with strawberry?"

Mrs. E.—"Oh, I don't think strawberry and chocolate go well together! The contrast is too striking, don't you think?"

Miss De B.—"Well, perhaps it is a little—loud."

Miss F.—"Lemon and chocolate are awfully nice."

Miss S.—"But there's something about pistache, don't you know, so delicate."

Miss F.—"I'm sure lemon is delicate. You can't taste any flavor at all, the way they make it at most places."

Miss S.—"But pistache is so refined, don't you know."

Mrs. E.—"Dear me, here's this man standing by waiting—it's perfectly horrid to have him looming over us like a ghost or something. Do let's give our orders and get him away!"

Miss De B.—"Well, what are you going to order?"

Mrs. E.—"Why, I told you—chocolate and lemon."

Miss F.—"No; that was what I ordered, wasn't it?"

Mrs. E.—"Why, so it was! Chocolate and strawberry I meant. Some people think that's too heavy—too cloying, you know—but I think it's about as good as anything."

Miss De B.—"Well, I think I'll take that, too. I don't know, tho. Lemon is awfully good. I know a lady up in the Catskills—she had the loveliest little boy, just six years old, with curly hair that hung ever so far down his back, and he used to come to me every morning and ask for candy in the prettiest way—just like a little dog, and he learned it all himself—his mother told me nobody taught him—tho I've always believed that that child never could have originated the idea all by himself——"

Mrs. E.—"Excuse me, Clara, but the man is waiting."

Miss De B.—"As I was saying, she was poisoned by eating lemon ice-cream; but I believe they found out afterward that some one put the rat-poison in the freezer by mistake—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Etamine; I didn't know you were speaking—oh, yes—strawberry ice-cream, waiter, and a fork, if you please—don't bring me a spoon—I don't want it."

Miss S.—"Well, if I can't have pistache——"

Miss F.—"You can't—I'm sure they haven't got it here. I'll take—let me see—some chocolate, I guess. Is your chocolate good, waiter?"

Miss S.—"Oh, it's sure to be good—they never give you bad chocolate. Well, I did want pistache; but I think I'll take lemon. Some lemon ice-cream, waiter—lemon flavor—and don't bring it in half melted."

Mrs. E. (impressively)—"Some chocolate and strawberry ice-cream, waiter, mixed. And a spoon. Do you understand me, waiter? A spoon. Not a fork."

Miss F.—"Chocolate ice-cream—don't forget!"

Miss S.—"Lemon ice-cream!"

Miss De B.—"Strawberry—and a fork!"

Mrs. E.—"Chocolate and strawberry—spoon, of course, waiter. I suppose you know that."

Waiter—"Ice-cream? Yes, ma'am. We ain't got nothin' only verniller, ma'am. Yaas'm—all out of everythin' only verniller. What'll it be, ladies?"

By permission of Puck. New York

A-FEARED OF A GAL
ANONYMOUS

Oh, darn it all! a-feared of her,
And such a mite of a gal;
Why, two of her size rolled into one
Won't ditto Sister Sal!
Her voice is sweet as the whippoorwill's,
And the sunshine's in her hair;
But I'd rather face a redskin's knife,
Or the grip of a grizzly bear.
Yet Sal says: "Why, she's such a dear,
She's just the one for you."
Oh, darn it all! a-feared of a gal,
And me just six feet two!

Tho she ain't any size, while I'm
Considerable tall,
I'm nowhere when she speaks to me,
She makes me feel so small.
My face grows red, my tongue gets hitched,
The plagued thing won't go;
It riles me, 'cause it makes her think
I'm most tarnation slow.
And tho folks say she's sweet on me,
I guess it can't be true.
Oh, darn it all! a-feared of a gal,
And me just six feet two!

My sakes! just s'pose if what the folks
Is saying should be so!
Go, Cousin Jane, and speak to her,
Find out and let me know;
Tell her the gals should court the men,
For isn't this leap-year?

That's why I'm kind of bashful like,
A-waiting for her here.
And should she hear I'm scared of her,
You'll swear it can't be true.
Oh, darn it all, a-feared of a gal,
And me just six feet two!

LEAVING OUT THE JOKE
ANONYMOUS

Some people are bright enough to enjoy a good joke, but do not have retentive memories, so as to be able to repeat it to others. Failures of this kind are sometimes very ludicrous. We give some good specimens.

The most famous of this class was the college professor, who, on parting with a student that had called on him, noticed that he had a new coat, and remarked that it was too short.

The student, with an air of resignation, replied: "It will be long enough before I get another."

The professor enjoyed the joke heartily, and going to a meeting of the college faculty just afterward, he entered the room in great glee and said:

"Young Sharp got off such a joke just now. He called on me a little while ago, and as he was leaving, I noticed his new coat, and told him it was too short, and he said: "It will be a long time before I get another."

No one laughed, and the professor sobering down, remarked: "It doesn't seem so funny as when he said it."

A red-haired woman who was ambitious of literary distinction found but poor sale for her book. A gentleman, in speaking of her disappointment, said: "Her hair is red (read) if her book is not." An auditor, in attempting to relate the joke elsewhere, said: "She has red hair if her book hasn't."

The most unfortunate attempt at reproducing another's wit was made by an Englishman who didn't understand the pun, but judged from the applause with which it was greeted that it must be excellent. During a dinner at which he was a guest a waiter let a boiled tongue slip off the plate on which he was bearing it, and it fell on the table.

The host at once apologized for the mishap as a lapsus linguæ (slip of the tongue). The joke was the best thing at the dinner, and our friend concluded to bring it up at his own table.

He accordingly invited his company and instructed his servant to let fall a roast of beef as he was bringing it to the table.

When the "accident" occurred, he exclaimed: "That's a lapsus linguæ."

Nobody laughed, and he said again, "I say that's a lapsus linguæ," and still no one laughed.

A screw was loose somewhere; so he told about the tongue falling, and they did laugh.

"Why is this," said a waiter, holding up a common kitchen utensil, "more remarkable than Napoleon Bonaparte? Because Napoleon was a great man, but this is a grater." When the funny man reproduced it in his circle, he asked the question right, but answered it, "Because Napoleon was a great man, but this is a nutmeg-grater."

THE CYCLOPEEDY
BY EUGENE FIELD

Havin' lived next door to the Hobart place f'r goin' on thirty years, I calc'late that I know jest about ez much about the case ez anybody else now on airth, exceptin' perhaps it's ol' Jedge Baker, and he's so plaguey old 'nd so powerful feeble that he don't know nothin'.

It seems that in the spring uv '47—the year that Cy Watson's oldest boy wuz drownded in West River—there come along a book agent sellin' volyumes 'nd tracks f'r the diffusion uv knowledge, 'nd havin' got the recommend of the minister 'nd uv the select-men, he done an all-fired big business in our part uv the county. His name wuz Lemuel Higgins, 'nd he wuz ez likely a talker ez I ever heerd, barrin' Lawyer Conkey, 'nd everybody allowed that when Conkey wuz round he talked so fast that the town pump ud have to be greased every twenty minutes.

One of the first uv our folks that this Lemuel Higgins struck wuz Leander Hobart. Leander had jest marr'd one uv the Peasley girls, 'nd had moved into the old homestead on the Plainville road,—old Deacon Hobart havin' give up the place to him, the other boys havin' moved out West (like a lot o' darned fools that they wuz!). Leander wuz feelin' his oats jest about this time, 'nd nuthin' wuz too good f'r him.

"Hattie," sez he, "I guess I'll have to lay in a few books f'r readin' in the winter time, 'nd I've half a notion to subscribe f'r a cyclopeedy. Mr. Higgins here says they're invalerable in a family, and that we orter have 'em, bein' as how we're likely to have the fam'ly bime by."

"Lor's sakes, Leander, how you talk!" sez Hattie, blushin' all over, ez brides allers does to heern tell uv sich things.

Waal, to make a long story short, Leander bargained with Mr. Higgins for a set uv them cyclopeedies, 'nd he signed his name to a long printed paper that showed how he agreed to take a cyclopeedy oncet in so often, which wuz to be ez often ez a new one uv the volyumes wuz printed. A cyclopeedy isn't printed all at oncet, because that would make it cost too much; consekently the man that gets it up has it strung along fur apart, so as to hit folks once every year or two, and gin'rally about harvest time. So Leander kind uv liked the idee, and he signed the printed paper 'nd made his affidavit to it afore Jedge Warner.

The fust volyume of the cyclopeedy stood on a shelf in the old seckertary in the settin'-room about four months before they had any use f'r it. One night 'Squire Tuner's son come over to visit Leander 'nd Hattie, and they got to talkin' about apples, 'nd the sort uv apples that wuz the best. Leander allowed that the Rhode Island greenin' wuz the best, but Hattie and the Turner boy stuck up f'r the Roxbury russet, until at last a happy idee struck Leander, and sez he: "We'll leave it to the cyclopeedy, b'gosh! Whichever one the cyclopeedy sez is the best will settle it."

"But you can't find out nothin' 'bout Roxbury russets nor Rhode Island greenin's in our cyclopeedy," sez Hattie.

"Why not, I'd like to know?" sez Leander, kind uv indignant like.

"'Cause ours hain't got down to the R yet," sez Hattie. "All ours tells about is things beginnin' with A."

"Well, ain't we talkin' about Apples!" sez Leander. "You aggervate me terrible, Hattie, by insistin' on knowin' what you don't know nothin' 'bout."

Leander went to the seckertary 'nd took down the cyclopeedy 'nd hunted all through it f'r Apples, but all he could find wuz "Apple—See Pomology."

"How in the thunder kin I see Pomology," sez Leander, "when there ain't no Pomology to see? Gol durn a cyclopeedy, anyhow!"

And he put the volyume back onto the shelf 'nd never sot eyes into it agin.

That's the way the thing run f'r years 'nd years. Leander would've gin up the plaguey bargain, but he couldn't; he had signed a printed paper 'nd had swore to it before a justice of the peace. Higgins would have had the law on him if he had throwed up the trade.

The most aggervatin' feature uv it all wuz that a new one uv them cussid cyclopeedies wuz allus sure to show up at the wrong time,—when Leander wuz hard up or had jest been afflicted some way or other. His barn burnt down two nights afore the volyume containin' the letter B arrived, and Leander needed all his chink to pay f'r lumber, but Higgins sot back on that affidavit and defied the life out uv him.

"Never mind, Leander," sez his wife, soothin' like, "it's a good book to have in the house, anyhow, now that we've got a baby."

"That's so," sez Leander, "babies does begin with B, don't it?"

You see their fust baby had been born; they named him Peasley,—Peasley Hobart,—after Hattie's folks. So, seein' as how he wuz payin' f'r a book that told about babies, Leander didn't begredge that five dollars so very much after all.

"Leander," sez Hattie, "that B cyclopeedy ain't no account. There ain't nothin' in it about babies except 'See Maternity'!"

"Waal, I'll be gosh durned!" sez Leander. That wuz all he said, and he couldn't do nothin' at all, f'r that book agent, Lemuel Higgins, had the dead-wood on him,—the mean, sneakin' critter!

So the years passed on, one of the cyclopeedies showin' up now 'nd then,—sometimes every two years 'nd sometimes every four, but allus at a time when Leander found it pesky hard to give up a fiver. It warn't no use cussin' Higgins; Higgins jest laffed when Leander allowed that the cyclopeedy wuz no good 'nd that he wuz bein' robbed. Meantime Leander's family wuz increasin' and growin'. Little Sarey had the hoopin'-cough dreadful one winter, but the cyclopeedy didn't help out at all, 'cause all it said wuz: "Hoopin' Cough—See Whoopin' Cough"—and uv course, there warn't no Whoopin' Cough to see, bein' as how the W hadn't come yet.

Oncet when Hiram wanted to dreen the home pasture, he went to the cyclopeedy to find out about it, but all he diskivered wuz: "Drain—See Tile." This wuz in 1859, and the cyclopeedy had only got down to G.

The cow wuz sick with lung fever one spell, and Leander laid her dyin' to that cussid cyclopeedy, 'cause when he went to readin' 'bout cows it told him to "See Zoology."

But what's the use uv harrowin' up one's feelin's talkin' 'nd thinkin' about these things? Leander got so after a while that the cyclopeedy didn't worry him at all: he grew to look at it ez one uv the crosses that human critters has to bear without complainin' through this vale uv tears. The only thing that bothered him wuz the fear that mebbe he wouldn't live to see the last volyume,—to tell the truth, this kind uv got to be his hobby, and I've heern him talk 'bout it many a time settin' round the stove at the tavern 'nd squirtin' tobacco juice at the sawdust box. His wife, Hattie, passed away with the yaller janders the winter W come, and all that seemed to reconcile Leander to survivin' her wuz the prospect uv seein' the last volyume uv that cyclopeedy. Lemuel Higgins, the book agent, had gone to his everlastin' punishment; but his son, Hiram, had succeeded to his father's business 'nd continued to visit the folks his old man had roped in. By this time Leander's children had growed up; all on 'em wuz marr'd, and there wuz numeris grandchildren to amuse the ol' gentleman. But Leander wuzn't to be satisfied with the common things uv airth; he didn't seem to take no pleasure in his grandchildren like most men do; his mind wuz allers sot on somethin' else,—for hours 'nd hours, yes, all day long, he'd set out on the front stoop lookin' wistfully up the road for that book agent to come along with a cyclopeedy. He didn't want to die till he'd got all the cyclopeedies his contract called for; he wanted to have everything straightened out before he passed away.

When—oh, how well I recollect it—when Y come along he wuz so overcome that he fell over in a fit uv paralysis, 'nd the old gentleman never got over it. For the next three years he drooped 'nd pined and seemed like he couldn't hold out much longer. Finally he had to take to his bed,—he was so old 'nd feeble,—but he made 'em move the bed up ag'inst the window so he could watch for that last volyume of the cyclopeedy.

The end come one balmy day in the spring uv '87. His life wuz a-ebbin' powerful fast; the minister wuz there, 'nd me, 'nd Dock Wilson, 'nd Jedge Baker, 'nd most uv the fam'ly. Lovin' hands smoothed the wrinkled forehead 'nd breshed back the long, scant, white hair, but the eyes of the dyin' man wuz sot upon that piece uv road over which the cyclopeedy man allus come.

All to oncet a bright 'nd joyful look come into them eyes, 'nd ol' Leander riz up in bed 'nd sez: "It's come!"

"What is it, father?" asked his daughter Sarey, sobbin' like.

"Hush," sez the minister, solemnly; "he sees the shinin' gates uv the Noo Jerusalem."

"No, no," cried the aged man; "it is the cyclopeedy—the letter Z—it's comin'!"

And, sure enough! the door opened, and in walked Higgins. He tottered rather than walked, f'r he had growed old 'nd feeble in his wicked perfession.

"Here's the Z cyclopeedy, Mr. Hobart," says Higgins.

Leander clutched it; he hugged it to his pantin' bosom; then stealin' one pale hand under the pillar he drew out a faded banknote 'nd gave it to Higgins.

"I thank Thee for this boon," sez Leander, rollin' his eyes up devoutly; then he gave a deep sigh.

"Hold on," cried Higgins, excitedly, "you've made a mistake—it isn't the last——"

But Leander didn't hear him—his soul hed fled from its mortal tenement 'nd hed soared rejoicin' to realms uv everlastin' bliss.

"He is no more," sez Dock Wilson, metaphorically.

"Then who are his heirs?" asked that mean critter Higgins.

"We be," sez the fam'ly.

"Do you conjointly and severally acknowledge and assume the obligation of deceased to me?" he asked 'em.

"What obligation?" asked Peasley Hobart, stern like.

"Deceased died owin' me f'r a cyclopeedy!" sez Higgins.

"That's a lie!" sez Peasley. "We seen him pay you for the Z!"

"But there's another one to come," sez Higgins.

"Another?" they all asked.

"Yes, the index," sez he. So there wuz.

Reprinted by permission of the author.

ECHO
BY JOHN G. SAXE

I asked of Echo, t'other day
(Whose words are often few and funny),
What to a novice she could say
Of courtship, love, and matrimony.
Quoth Echo plainly,—"Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry? Should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,
A pattern of inconstancy;
Or selfish, mercenary flirt?
Quoth Echo, sharply,—"Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife
That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life,
And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,—"Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray, should I act the wiser part
To take the treasure or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,—"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid
To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,
In answer to my loving letter?
Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—"Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain
I find my heart entwined about
With Cupid's dear delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,—"Get out!"

But if some maid with beauty blest,
As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest
Till envious Death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—"Take her!"

Reprinted by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

OUR RAILROADS
ANONYMOUS

He stood in the station, she at his side—
She is a fair, young, blushing bride.
On their honeymoon they're starting now;
It always follows the marriage vow.
He looks at the flaring railroad maps,
At the train of cars and his baggage traps,
And whispered: "Pettie, how shall we go,—
By the Kankakee or the Kokomo?

"These railroad maps confuse the eye,
There's the C. B. Q. and the R. N. Y.
And this one says your life's at stake
On any road but the Sky Blue Lake.
The N. E. R. L. P. Q. J.
Have sleepers on the entire way;
But I've heard these trains are much more slow
Than the Kankakee or the Kokomo."

She murmured: "Sweetie, I've heard pa say
What a fine old road is the P. G. K.;
But mamma seemed to disagree,
And prefers the X. S. H. O. P.
This chart says, dearie, the views are fine
On the Texas-Cowboy-Mustang line;
But still, perhaps, we'd better go
On the Kankakee or the Kokomo."

A conductor chanced to pass them by
And the bridegroom caught his gentle eye;
He said: "O man, with the cap of blue,
Inform me quick, inform me true,
Which road is best for a blushing, pure,
Young, timid bride on her wedding tour?
And tell us quickly what you know
Of the Kankakee or the Kokomo?"

The conductor's eyes gave a savage gleam;
These words rolled out in a limpid stream:
"There's the A. B. J. D. V. R. Z.
Connects with the Flip-Flap-Biff-Bang-B,
You can change on the Leg-off-Sueville-Grand,
And go through on the Pan-cake-ace-Full-Hand.
That road you named is blocked by snow,
The Kankakee and the Kokomo.

"The Pennsylvania, Pittsburg Through,
Connects with the Oshkosh Kalamazoo,
With a smoking car all the afternoon;
Just the thing for a honeymoon;
And the Central-Scalp-Tooth-Bungville-switch
Goes through a vine-land country rich.
Of the road you named I nothing know,
The Kankakee and the Kokomo."

The bride said: "Honey, 'tis best, by far,
Like the dollar, we return to pa
(That's a pun I heard while on a train
On the U. R. N. G. Jersey main)."
The conductor smiled; his eye-teeth showed;
He had spoiled the trade of a rival road.
He knew in his heart there was no snow
On the Kankakee or the Kokomo.

And the bride and groom returned to pa,
Who heard it all and then said: "Pshaw!
If you found you couldn't go that way,
Why didn't you go on the Cross-eyed Bay?"
The bridegroom gave a howl of pain;
The railroad names had turned his brain.
He raves, insane, forevermore;
In a madhouse, chained unto the floor,
He gibbers: "Tootsie, shall we go
By the Kankakee or the Kokomo?"

WAKIN' THE YOUNG 'UNS
(The old man from the foot of the stairs—5 a. m.)
BY JOHN C. BOSS

Bee-ull! Bee-ull! O Bee-ull! my gracious,
Air you still sleepin'?
Th' hour-hand's creepin'
Nearder five.
(Wal, durned ef this 'ere ain't vexatious!)
Don't ye hyar them cattle callin'?
An' th' ole red steer a-bawlin'?
Come, look alive!
Git up! Git up!

Mar'ann! Mar'ann! (Jist hyar her snorin'!),
Mar'ann! it's behoovin'
Thet you be a-moovin'!
Brisk, I say!
Hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin'?
The kittle's a-spilin'
Ter git hisse'f bilin'.
It's comin' day.
Git up! Git up!

Jule! O Jule! Now whut is ailin'?
You want ter rest?
Wal' I'll be blest!
S'pose them cows
'Ll give down milk 'ithout you pailin'?
You mus' be goin crazy;
Er' more like, gittin' lazy.
Come, now, rouse.
Git up! Git up!

Jake, you lazy varmint! Jake! Hey Jake!
Whut you layin' theer fur?
You know the stock's ter keer fur;
So, hop out!
(Thet boy is wusser'n a rock ter wake!)
Don't stop to shiver,
But jist unkiver,
An' pop out!
Git up! Git up!

Young 'uns! Bee-ull! Jake! Mar'ann! Jule!
(Wal' durn my orn'ry skin!
They've gone ter sleep agin,
Fur all my tellin'!)
See hyar, I hain't no time ter fool!
It's the las' warnin'
I'll give this mornin'.
I'm done yellin'!
Git up! Git up!

Solus

Wal, whut's th' odds—an hour, more or less?
B'lieve it makes 'em stronger
Ter sleep a leetle longer
Thar in bed.
The time is comin' fas' enough, I guess,
When I'll wish, an' wish 'ith weepin'
They was back up yender sleepin',
Overhead,
Ter git up.

PAT'S REASON
ANONYMOUS

One day I observed in a crowded horse-car,
A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far,
And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown,
As nobody offered to let her sit down.
And many there sat who, to judge by their dress,
Might a gentleman's natural instincts possess,
But who, judged by their acts, make us firmly believe
That appearances often will sadly deceive.
There were some most intently devouring the news,
And some thro' the windows enjoying the views;
And others indulged in a make-believe nap,
While the lady still stood holding on by the strap.
At last a young Irishman, fresh from the "sod,"
Arose with a smile and most comical nod,
Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated
That the lady should sit in the place he'd vacated.
"Excuse me," said Pat, "that I caused you to wait
So long before offerin' to give you a sate,
But in troth I was only just waitin' to see
If there wasn't more gintlemin here beside me."

QUIT YOUR FOOLIN'
ANONYMOUS

Girls is queer! I used to think
Emmy didn't care for me,
For, whenever I would try
Any lovin' arts, to see
How she'd take 'em—sweet or sour—
Always saucy-like says she:
"Quit your foolin'!"

Once a-goin' home from church,
Jest to find if it would work,
Round her waist I slipt my arm—
My! you'd ought 'o seen her jerk,
Spunky? well, she acted so—
And she snapt me up as perk—
"Quit your foolin'!"

Every time 'twas just the same,
Till one night I says, says I—
Chokin' some I must admit,
Tremblin' some I don't deny—
"Emmy, seein' as I don't suit,
Guess I'd better say good-by
An' quit foolin'."

Girls is queer! She only laughed—
Cheeks all dimplin'; "John," says she,
"Foolin' men that never gits
Real in earnest, ain't for me."
"Wan't that cute? I took the hint,
An' a chair, an' staid, an' we
Quit our foolin'.

SHE WOULD BE A MASON
BY JAMES L. LAUGHTON

The funniest thing I ever heard,
The funniest thing that ever occurred,
Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,
Who wanted to be a Mason.

Her husband, Tom Byrde, a Mason true—
As good a Mason as any of you;
He is tyler of Lodge Cerulean Blue,
And tyles and delivers the summons due—
And she wanted to be a Mason, too,
This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.

She followed round, this inquisitive wife,
And nagged him and teased him half out of his life;
So to terminate this unhallowed strife,
He consented at last to admit her.
And first, to disguise her from bonnet and shoon,
This ridiculous lady agreed to put on
His breech—ah! forgive me—I meant pantaloons;
And miraculously did they fit her.

The lodge was at work on the Master's degree,
The light was ablaze on the letter C;
High soared the pillars J and B.
The officers sat like Solomon, wise;
The brimstone burned amid horrible cries;
The goat roamed wildly through the room;
The candidate begged to let him go home;
And the devil himself stood up at the east,
As broad as an alderman at a feast,
When in came Mrs. Byrde.

O horrible sounds! O horrible sight!
Can it be that Masons take delight
In spending thus the hours of night?
Ah! could their wives and daughters know
The unutterable things they say and do,
Their feminine hearts would burst with wo!
But this is not all my story.
Those Masons joined in a hideous ring,
The candidate howling like everything,
And thus in tones of death they sing
(The candidate's name was Morey):
"Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble;
Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn;
Give old Morey another turn!"

The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,
Just like a place we will not name;
Good angels, that inquiring came
From blissful courts, looked on with shame
And tearful melancholy.
Again they dance, but twice as bad,
They jump and sing like demons mad;
The tune is far from jolly:
"Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble;
Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn;
Give old Morey another turn!"

Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Unable to speak a single word.
She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,
On the left of the junior warden there,
And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,
That the chair was made of human bones.
Of human bones! On grinning skulls
That ghastly throne of horror rolls;
Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore;
Those bones, the bones that Morgan wore.
His scalp across the top was flung,
His teeth around the arms were strung.
Never in all romance was known
Such uses made of human bone.

There came a pause—a pair of paws
Reached through the floor, up sliding-doors,
And grabbed the unhappy candidate!
How can I, without tears, relate
The lost and ruined Morey's fate?
She saw him sink in a fiery hole,
She heard him scream, "My soul! My soul!"
While roars of fiendish laughter roll,
And drown the yells for mercy:
"Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble;
Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn;
Give old Morey another turn!"

The ridiculous woman could stand no more,
She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,
'Midst all the diabolical roar.
What then, you ask me, did befall
Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all—
She dreamed she had been in a Mason's hall.

HENRY THE FIFTH'S WOOING
BY SHAKESPEARE

K. Henry. Fair Katharine, and most fair,
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms
Such as will enter at a lady's ear
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

Katharine. Your majesty shall mock at me; I can not speak your England.

K. Hen. O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate?

Kath. Pardonnez-moi, I can not tell vat is "like me."

K. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

Kath. Que dit-il? que je suis semblable à les anges?

Alice. Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il.

K. Hen. I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.

Kath. O les langues des hommes sont pleines des tromperies.

K. Hen. What says she, fair one? that the tongues of men are full of deceits?

Alice. Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de princess.

K. Hen. The princess is the better Englishwoman. I' faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding; I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, "I love you": then if you urge me further than to say, "Do you in faith?" I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady?

Kath. Sauf votre honneur, me understand vell.

K. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one I have neither words nor measures, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armor on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favors, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jackanapes, never off. But, Kate, I can not look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation: only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: if thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, no; yet I love thee, too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favors, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or rather the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of France?

K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate: but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.

Kath. I can not tell vat is dat.

K. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Quand j'ay la possession de France, et quand vous avez la possession de moi,—let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!—donc votre est France et vous êtes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French; I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

Kath. Sauf votre honneur, le François que vous parlez, est meilleur que l'Anglois lequel je parle.

K. Hen. No, faith, is't not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English, canst thou love me?

Kath. I can not tell.

K. Hen. Can any of your neighbors tell Kate. I'll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love With your heart; but, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly. How answer you, la plus belle Katharine du monde, mon très chère et divine déesse?

Kath. Your majestee ave faussee French enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France.

K. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate; by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. I was created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear; my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better: and therefore, tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say, "Harry of England, I am thine"; which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud, "England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine"; who, tho I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English; wilt thou have me?

Kath. Dat is as it sall please de Roi mon père.

K. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.

Kath. Den it sall also content me.

K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you my queen.

Kath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez.

K. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

Kath. Il n'est pas la coutume de France.

K. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says she?

Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France—I can not tell vat is baiser en Anglish.

K. Hen. To kiss.

Alice. Your majesty entendre bettre que moi.

K. Hen. It is not the fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would you say?

Alice. Oui, vraiment.

K. Hen. O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I can not be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion: we are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults; as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. (Kisses her.) You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.

SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS"
BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

Mrs. M. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.

Lyd. Madam, I thought you once——

Mrs. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all. Thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow—to illiterate him, I say, from your memory.

Lyd. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.

Mrs. M. But I say it is, miss! There is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor, dear uncle as if he had never existed, and I thought it my duty to do so; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.

Sir A. Surely, the young woman does not pretend to remember what she is ordered to forget! Ah, this comes of her reading.

Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?

Mrs. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing?

Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly that, had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.

Mrs. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 'tis safest, in matrimony, to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor, and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made; and, when it pleased heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed!

Sir A. He-e-m!

Mrs. M. But, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?

Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.

Mrs. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors.

Lyd. Willingly, ma'am; I can not change for the worse. [Exit.

Mrs. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you!

Sir. A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library; she had a book in each hand—they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers. From that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!

Mrs. M. Those are vile places, indeed!

Sir A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And, depend upon it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.

Mrs. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony; you surely speak laconically. (Sir Anthony places a chair for her and another for himself, bows to her respectfully and waits till she is seated.)

Sir A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know?

Mrs. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony—I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning. I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman. For instance—I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or Fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she should be a perfect mistress of orthodoxy—that is, she should not mispronounce and misspell words as our young women of the present day constantly do. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

Sir A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you, tho I must confess that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question. But to the more important point in debate—you say you have no objection to my proposal?

Mrs. M. None, I assure you. I am under no positive engagement with Mr. Acres; and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better success.

Sir A. Well, madam, I will write for the boy directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, tho I have for some time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with his regiment.

Mrs. M. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.

Sir A. Objection! Let him object, if he dare! No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple. In his younger days 'twas—"Jack, do this." If he demurred, I knocked him down; and if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room.

Mrs. M. Ay, and the properest way, o' my conscience! Nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. (Both rise.) Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the captain as an object not altogether illegible.

Sir A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you. Good morning, Mrs. Malaprop. (Both bow profoundly; Sir Anthony steps back as if to go out, then returns to say:) And let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl—take my advice, keep a tight hand. Good-morning, Mrs. Malaprop. If she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key. Good-morning, Mrs. Malaprop. And if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about. Good-morning, Mrs. Malaprop.

SCENES FROM "RIP VAN WINKLE"
AS RECITED BY THE LATE A. P. BURBANK

Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk in order to have him sign away his property to Von Beekman; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper.

Scene I: The village inn. Von Beekman, alone. Enter Rip, laughing like a child himself, and shaking off the children.

Rip (to the children outside). Hey! You let my dog Schneider alone dere; you hear dat, Sock der Jacob, der bist eine fordonner spitspoo—yah——Why, hullo, Derrick! how you was? Did you hear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was comin' through the willage—Schneider und me—Schneider's my dog; I don't know whether you know him? Well, dem liddle fellers, dey took Schneider und—ha, ha, ha!—dey—ha, ha!—dey tied a tin-kettle mit Schneider's tail! Ha, ha, ha! My, how he did run den, mit the kettle banging about! My, how scared he was! Well, I didn't hi him comin'. He run betwixt me und my legs und spilt me und all dem children in the mud,—yah, dat's a fact. Ha, ha, ha!

Derrick. Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip?

Rip. What do I generally say to a glass? I generally say it's a fine thing—when dere's plenty in it—und I say more to what is in it than to the glass.

Derrick. Certainly, certainly. Say, hello there! Nick Vedder, bring out a bottle of your best.

Rip. Dat's right—fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe it, Derrick, dat's the first one I've had to-day. I guess, maybe, the reason is, I couldn't got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper! Ah, you may well go "Ah" und smack your chops over dat. You don't give me such schnapps when I come. Where you got dat?

Nick. That's high Dutch, Rip,—high Dutch, and ten years in bottle.

Rip. Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat vater, Nick Vedder; I don't want no vater in my liquor. Good liquor und vater, Derrick, is just like man und wife—dey don't agree well togedder! Dat's me und my wife, anyway. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper!

Nick. That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl."

Rip. Drown my sorrows? Yah, but she won't drown. My wife is my sorrow und you cannick drown her. She tried it once, but she couldn't do it. Didn't you know dat Gretchen like to get drown? No? Dat's the funniest thing of the whole of it. It's the same day I got married; she was comin' across dat Hudson River dere in the ferry-boat to get married mit me.

Derrick. Yes.

Rip. Well, the boat she was comin' in got upsetted.

Derrick. Ah!

Rip. Well, but she wasn't in it.

Nick. Oh!

Rip. No, dat's what I say; if she had been in the boat what got upsetted, maybe she might have got drowned. She got left behind somehow or odder. Women is always behind dat way—always.

Derrick. But surely, Rip, you would have risked your life to save her.

Rip (incredulously). You mean I would yump in und pull Gretchen out? Oh, would I? Oh, you mean den—yes, I believe I would den. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. When a feller gets married a good many years mit his wife, he gets very much attached to her. But if Mrs. Van Winkle was a-drownin' in the water now, und should say to me, "Rip, come und save your wife!" I would say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will yust go home und tink about it!" Oh, no, Derrick, if ever Gretchen tumbles in the water now, she's got to swim; I told you dat—ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's better I go oud!

[Exit Rip.

Scene II: Rip's home. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife found him carousing and dancing upon the village green with the pretty girls. She drove him away in no very gentle fashion. Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-press, with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception; but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, Rip says:

Rip. Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'!

Meenie. Hush-sh-h. (Shakes finger to indicate the presence of her mother.)

Rip. Eh! what's the matter? I don't see nothing, my darlin'. Meenie, is the old wildcat home? Oh, say, is dot you, Gretchen? My darlin', my angel, don't do dat,—let go my head, won't you? Well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. For what you do dat, eh? You must want a bald-headed husband, I reckon.

Gretchen. Who was that you called a wildcat?

Rip. Who was dat I call a wildcat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat I called a wildcat? Dat must have been the time I came in the window dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was the same time. Well, now, let me see. (Suddenly.) It was de dog Schneider dat I call it.

Gretchen. The dog Schneider? That's a likely story.

Rip. Of course it is likely,—he's my dog. I'll call him a wildcat much as I please. (Gretchen begins to weep.) Oh, well; dere, now, don't you cry, don't you cry, Gretchen; you hear what I said? Listen now. If you don't cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life.

Gretchen. O Rip, you have said so so many, many times, and you never kept your word yet.

Rip. Well, I say it dis time, und I mean it.

Gretchen. O Rip! if I could only trust you.

Rip. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye?

Gretchen. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest woman in the world.

Rip. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live, if you don't cry.

Gretchen. O Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little house so nicely; and you and I, and our darling little Meenie here—how happy we shall be!

Rip. Dere, dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. (Exit Gretchen and Meenie.) My! I swore off from drinking so many, many times, und I never kept my word yet. (Taking out bottle.) I don't believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin' to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your good health, und——

(Enter Gretchen, suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him.)

Gretchen. Oh, you paltry thief!

Rip. What you doin'? You'll spill the liquor.

Gretchen. Yes, I will spill it. That's the last drop you drink under my roof!

Rip. Eh! What?

Gretchen. Out, I say! you drink no more here.

Rip. Why, Gretchen, are you goin' to turn me oud like a dog? Well, maybe you are right. I have got no home. I will go. But mind, Gretchen, after what you say to me to-night, I can nefer darken your door again—nefer; I will go.

Meenie. Not into the storm, father. Hark, how it thunders!

Rip. Yah, my child; but not as bad to me as the storm in my home. I will go. God bless you, my child! Don't you nefer forget your father.

Gretchen (relenting). No, Rip,—I——

Rip. No; you have driven me from your house. You have opened the door for me to go. You may nefer open it for me to come back. I wipe the disgrace from your door. Good-by, Gretchen, good-by!

[Rip exits into the storm.

---

PART III
SERIOUS HITS

IF WE HAD THE TIME
BY RICHARD BURTON

If I had the time to find a place
And sit me down full face to face
With my better self, that can not show
In my daily life that rushes so:
It might be then I would see my soul
Was stumbling toward the shining goal,
I might be nerved by the thought sublime,—
If I had the time!

If I had the time to let my heart
Speak out and take in my life apart,
To look about and to stretch a hand
To a comrade quartered in no-luck land;
Ah, God! If I might but just sit still
And hear the note of the whippoorwill,
I think that my wish with God's would rhyme,—
If I had the time!

If I had the time to learn from you
How much comfort my word could do;
And I told you then of my sudden will
To kiss your feet when I did you ill;
If the tears aback of the coldness feigned
Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained,—
Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,
If we had the time!

By permission of the author and of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, Boston.

THE FOOL'S PRAYER
BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

The royal feast was done; the king
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before:
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the patient grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose, "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heartstrings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept,—
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say,—
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripe must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders,—oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The king, and sought his garden cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low:
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

THE EVE OF WATERLOO
BY LORD BYRON

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;—
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,
Or a car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet—
But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar!

---

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn, the marshaling in arms,—the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE
BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow Julie Plante
Got scar't an' run below—
For de win' she blow lak hurricane;
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck, too—
He call de crew from up de hole;
He call de cook also.
De cook she's name was Rosie,
She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win' she blow from nor'—eas'—wes',
De sout' win' she blow, too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at shall I do?"
Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre,
But still the scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak de life preserve
An' jump off on de lak'
An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie, dear,
I go drown for your sak."

Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore.
For de win' she blow lak hurricane;
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.

Now, all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak' hurricane
An s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.

From "The Habitant," by permission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London.

FATHER'S WAY
BY EUGENE FIELD

My father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,—
Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth.
He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,—
I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song;
But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue,
He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,—

Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so,
Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know;
He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way
But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay."
And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth
There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth.

When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down
To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town.
A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break,
And all us children, too,—for hers, and not for William's sake!
But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so,
Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low.

And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West,
Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest.
She was the sunlight in our home,—why, father used to say
It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away;
But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears,
Poor father whistled lonesome-like—and went to feed the steers.

When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot,
He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not;
And when came death and bore away the one he worshiped so,
How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with wo!
You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,—
He'd always stopt his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it.

I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,—
To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow men.
Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong,
And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song!
Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago,
When he did battle with the griefs he would not have us know!

I AM CONTENT
TRANSLATED BY CARMEN SYLVA

A spindle of hazelwood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day—
The water has brought it me back no more.

As he lay a-dying, the soldier spake:
"I am content!
Let my mother be told in the village there,
And my bride in the hut be told,
That they must pray with folded hands,
With folded hands for me."
The soldier is dead—and with folded hands,
His bride and his mother pray.
On the field of battle they dug his grave,
And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed,
The earth they laid him in.
The sun looked down on him there and spake:
"I am content."

And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave,
And were glad they blossomed there.
And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,
The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave:
"Did the banner flutter then?"
"Not so, my hero," the wind replied,
"The fight is done, but the banner won,
Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,
Have borne it in triumph hence."
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
"I am content."

And again he hears the shepherds pass,
And the flocks go wand'ring by,
And the soldier asked: "Is the sound I hear,
The sound of the battle's roar?"
And they replied: "My hero, nay!
Thou art dead and the fight is o'er,
Our country joyful and free."
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
"I am content."

Then he heareth the lovers, laughing, pass,
And the soldier asks once more:
"Are these not the voices of them that love,
That love—and remember me?"
"Not so, my hero," the lovers say,
"We are those that remember not;
For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,
And the dead must be forgot."
Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:
"I am content."

A spindle of hazelwood had I;
Into the mill-stream it fell one day—
The water has brought it me back no more.

THE EAGLE'S SONG
BY RICHARD MANSFIELD

The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub
Was seized by an eagle and carried up
And homed for a while in an eagle's nest,
And slept for a while on an eagle's breast,
And the eagle taught it the eagle's song:
"To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"

The lion whelp sprang from the eerie nest,
From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest;
He fought the king on the spreading plain,
And drove him back o'er the foaming main.

He held the land as a thrifty chief,
And reared his cattle and reaped his sheaf,
Nor sought the help of a foreign hand,
Yet welcomed all to his own free land!

Two were the sons that the country bore
To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore,
And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son,
And Industry lived with the Northern one.
Tears for the time when they broke and fought!
Tears was the price of the union wrought!
And the land was red in a sea of blood,
Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!

And now that the two are one again,
Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!"
And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song,
"To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"
For the eagle's beak and the lion's paw,
And the lion's fangs and the eagle's claw,
And the eagle's swoop and the lion's might,
And the lion's leap and the eagle's sight,
Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!"
Now that the two are one again!
Here's to a cheer for the Yankee ships!
And "Well done, Sam," from the mother's lips!

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK
BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

VIRGINIUS
BY MACAULAY

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,
To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide.
Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,—
"Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.
And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,—
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
"The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way;
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey;
With all his wit he little deems that spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left:
He little deems that, in my hand, I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,—
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,—which thou shalt never know.
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss;
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.
Then, for a little moment, all the people held their breath;
And through the crowded forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment broke forth from one and all
A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall;
Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high:
"O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And e'en as Appius Claudius has dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child; then where the body lay,
Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!
Ten pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!"
He looked upon his clients, but none would work his will;
He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,
And there ta'en horse, to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome.

THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD
BY CLEMENT SCOTT

Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead,
Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!
Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;
Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oyster-mouth;
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,
And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when
There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.
When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the
sea,
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,
Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar.
Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!
Leaving the weeping women, and booming of signal guns;
Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love;
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!
Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the life-boat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!
And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;
And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!
But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.
Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains high!
"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-by!"
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But the father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,—a fighting form;
It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;
It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death;
It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.
They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst, and more,
Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?
What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!"
As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.
"Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,
"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!"
"Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,
"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!"
"Come back?" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town.
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe
to land!
Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."
Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS BOY
BY WILLIAM BAINE

"Place there the boy," the tyrant said;
"Fix me the apple on his head.
Ha! rebel, now!
There's a fair mark for your shaft;
To yonder shining apple waft
An arrow." And the tyrant laughed.
With quivering brow.
Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale;
His proud lips throbbed as if would fail
Their quivering breath.
"Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried,
"I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride."
No voice to that stern taunt replied,
All mute as death.

"And what the meed?" at length Tell asked.
"Bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked,
It is my will.
But that thine eye may keener be,
And nerved to such nice archery,
If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free.
What! pause you still?
Give him a bow and arrow there
One shaft—but one." Gleams of despair
Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face:
Then passed away each stormy trace,
And high resolve came in their place,
Unmoved, yet flushed,
"I take thy terms," he muttered low,
Grasped eagerly the proffered bow—
The quiver searched,
Sought out an arrow keen and long,
Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong,
And placed it on the sounding thong
The tough yew arched.

He drew the bow, whilst all around
That thronging crowd there was no sound,
No step, no word, no breath.
All gazed with an unerring eye,
To see the fearful arrow fly;
The light wind dies into a sigh,
And scarcely stirred.
Afar the boy stood, firm and mute;
He saw the strong bow curved to shoot,
But never moved.
He knew the daring coolness of that hand
He knew it was a father scanned
The boy he loved.

The Switzer gazed—the arrow hung
"My only boy!" sobbed on his tongue;
He could not shoot.
"Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail?
Mark how his haughty brow grows pale!"
But a deep voice rung on the gale—
"Shoot in God's name!"
Again the drooping shaft he took,
And turned to Heaven one burning look,
Of all doubts reft.
"Be firm, my boy!" was all he said.
The apple's left the stripling's head.
Ha! Ha! 'tis cleft!
And so it was, and Tell was free.
Quick the brave boy was at his knee
With rosy cheek.

His loving arms his boy embrace;
But again that tyrant cried in haste,
"An arrow in thy belt is placed;
What means it? Speak";
The Switzer raised his clenched hand high,
Whilst lightning flashed across his eye
Incessantly.
"To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart,
Had Heaven willed it that my dart
Had touched my boy."
"Rebellion! Treason! chain the slave!"
A hundred swords around him wave,
Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave
Infuriate joy.

But that one arrow found its goal
Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul;
And Lucerne's lake
Heard his dastard soul outmoan
When Freedom's call abroad was blown,
And Switzerland, a giant grown,
Her fetters brake.
From hill to hill the mandate flew,
From lake to lake the tempest grew,
With wakening swell,
Till proud oppression crouched for shame,
And Austria's haughtiness grew tame
And Freedom's watchword was the name of
William Tell.

LASCA
BY F. DESPREZ

I want free life and I want fresh air;
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in battle,
The mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads
That wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger and life and love.
And Lasca! Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl on the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger!
An inch to the left or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn reboso about the wound
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Her eye was brown,—a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip, and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of old Spain.
The air was heavy, the night was hot,
I sat by her side, and forgot—forgot;
Forgot the herd that were taking their rest;
Forgot that the air was close opprest,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;
That once let the herd at its breath take fright,
That nothing on earth can stop the flight;
And wo to the rider, and wo to the steed,
Who falls in front of their mad stampede!
Was that thunder? No, by the Lord!
I spring to my saddle without a word.
One foot on mine, and she clung behind.
Away! on a hot chase down the wind!
But never was fox-hunt half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared.
For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one—
Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse;
Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance;
And if the steers, in their frantic course,
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your star; if not, good-by
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
And the open air and the open sky,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The cattle gained on just as I felt
For my old six-shooter, behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together, and—what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my breast,
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
Then came thunder in my ears
As over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise
Lasca was dead!
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying, and no one knows,
And the summer shines and the winter snows;
For many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head;
And the little gray hawk that hangs aloft in the air;
And the sly coyote trots here and there,
And the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides
Into the rift in a cotton-wood tree;
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship at sea;
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like the things that were.
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST
BY S. W. FOSS

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk,
An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk;
Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there,
An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz:
"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,
An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here,
Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,
Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle.
Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin,
An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge:
"This man profanes the house of God! W'y this is sacrilege!"
The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet,
An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat.

He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain
Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the brain;
An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees,
He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry;
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky,
The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an' sway,
An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears,
Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears;
An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat,
Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that!

An' then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven—
Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv heaven;
The morning stars they sung together—no soul wuz left alone—
We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on His throne!

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again,
An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight,
An' then—the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho he never spoke a word,
An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard;
He hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry the day,
W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

By permission of The Blade, Toledo, Ohio.

LIFE COMPARED TO A GAME OF CARDS
ANONYMOUS

Life is like a game of cards
Which each one has to learn.
Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack,
And each a trump does turn.

Some turn a high card at the top,
While others turn a low.
Some hold a hand quite flushed with trumps,
While others none can show.

When hearts are trumps we play for love
And pleasure decks the hour.
No thought of danger ever comes
In roses' lovely bower.

When diamonds chance to turn the pack
'Tis then men play for gold,
And heavy sums are won and lost
By gamblers young and old.

When clubs are trumps beware of war
On ocean and on land,
For fearful things have come to pass
When clubs were in the hand.

But last of all is when the spade is turned by the hand of time,
And finishes up the game in every land and clime;
No matter how much a man may make or how much a man may save,
You'll find the spade turns up at last to dig each player's grave.

OLD DADDY TURNER
ANONYMOUS

This was the picture in front of "Old Daddy Turner's" cabin in the Kaintuck quarter the other afternoon: Two colored men sitting on a wash-bench, silent and sorrowful; an old dog, sleeping in the sun at their feet, and a colored woman calling to a boy who was on the fence: "Now, Jeems Henry, you git right down from dat! Doan you know day Daddy Turner am jist on de p'int of dyin' and gwine up to hebben?"

Here was the picture inside: The poor old, white-headed man lying on his dying bed, flesh wasted away and strength departed. Near him sat his faithful old wife, rocking to and fro and moaning and grieving. Farther away was a colored man and woman, solemn-faced and sad-hearted, shaking their heads as they cast glances toward the bed. For a long time the old man lay quiet and speechless, but at length he signed to be propped up. A sun as warm as springtime poured into the room. He took notice of it, and a change came to his face as his eyes rested upon his grieving wife.

"Ize bin gwine back in my mind!" he whispered, as he reached out his thin hand for her to clasp. "Fur ober fo'ty y'ars we's trabbled 'long the same path. We sung de same songs—we prayed de same prayers—we had hold of han's when we 'listed in de Gospel ranks an' sot our faces to'rds de golden gates of hebben. Ole woman, Ize gwine to part wid you! Yes, Ize gwine ter leave yer all alone!"

"O Daddy! Daddy!" she wailed as she leaned over him.

"Doan't take on so, chile! It's de Lawd's doin's, not mine. To-morrow de sun may be as bright an' warm, but de ole man won't be heah. All de arternoon Ize had glimpses of a shady path leadin' down to de shor' of a big broad ribber. Ize seen people gwine down dar to cross ober, an' in a leetle time I'll be wid 'em."

She put her wrinkled face on the pillow beside his and sobbed, and he placed his hand on her head and said:

"It's de Lawd, chile—de bressed Lawd! Chile, Ize tried to be good to yer. You has been good to me. We am nuffin but ole cull'd folk, po' in eberyting, but tryin' to do right by eberybody. "When dey tole me I'd got to die, I wasn't sartin if de Lawd wanted a po' ole black man like me up dar. Yes, chile, He will! Dis mawnin' I heard de harps playin', de rustle of wings, an' a cloud sorter lifted up an' I got a cl'ar view right frew de pearly gates. I saw ole slaves an' nayburs dar, an' dey was jist as white as anybody, an' a hundred han's beckoned me to come right up dar 'mong 'em."

"O Daddy! I'll be all alone—all alone!" she wailed.

"Hush, chile! Ize gwine to be lookin' down on ye! Ize gwine to put my han' on yer head an' kiss ye when yer heart am big wid sorrow; an' when night shuts down an' you pray to de Lawd, I'll be kneelin' long side of ye. Ye won't see me, but I'll be wid ye. You's old an' gray. It won't be long before ye'll git de summons. In a little time de cloud will lif' fur ye, an' I'll be right dar by de pearly gates to take ye in my arms."

"But I can't let you go—I will hold you down heah wid me!"

"Chile! Ize sorry for ye, but Ize drawin' nigh dat shady path! Hark! I kin h'ah de footsteps of de mighty parade of speerits marchin' down to de 'broad ribber! Dey will dig a grave an' lay my ole bones dar, an' in a week all de world but you will forgit me. But doan' grieve, chile. De Lawd isn't gwine to shet de gates on me 'cause I'm ole an' po' an' black. I kin see dem shinin' way up dar—see our boy at the gate—h'ah de sweetest music dat angels kin play!—Light de lamp, chile, 'cause de night has come!"

"Oh! he's gwine—he's gwine!" she wailed, as her tears fell upon his face.

"Chile! hold my han'! Ober heah am de path! I kin see men an' women an' chil'en marchin' 'long! Furder down am de sunlight. It shines on de great ribber! Ober de ribber am—de—gates—of——"

Of heaven! On earth, old and poor and low—beyond the gates, an angel with the rest.

THE TRAMP
ANONYMOUS

Now, is that any way for to treat a poor man?
I just asked for a penny or two;
Don't get your back up, and call me a "bum,"
Because I have nothing to do.

Once I was strong and handsome,
Had plenty of money and clothes:
That was afore I tippled,
And whisky had painted my nose.

Down in the Lehigh Valley
Me and my people grew.
Gentlemen, I was a farmer,
And a very good farmer, too.

Me and my wife, and Nellie,—
Nellie was just sixteen;
And she was the prettiest creature
That ever that valley had seen.

Beaux? Why, she had a dozen;
They come from near and fur:
But they was mostly farmers,
And that didn't quite suit her.

But one of 'em was a New Yorker,
Stylish and handsome and tall.
Hang him! If I had him I'd—
Well, just let me catch him, that's all.

Well, he was the fellow for Nellie,—
She didn't know no ill.
Her mother tried to prevent it;
But you know a young girl's will.

Well, it's the same old story,
Common enough, you'll say:
He was a smooth-tongued villain,
And he got her to run away.

About a month or so after,
We heard from the poor young thing:
He had gone away, and left her
Without any wedding-ring.

Back to our home we brought her,—
Back to her mother's side,
Filled with a raging fever;
And she fell at our feet, and died.

Frantic with grief and sorrow,
Her mother began to sink:
Dead! in less than a fortnight.
That's when I took to drink.

And all I want is a penny or two,
Just to help me on my way;
And I'll tramp till I find that hell-hound,
If it takes till the judgment-day.

THE DANDY FIFTH
BY F. H. GASSAWAY

'Twas the time of the workingmen's great strike, when all the land stood still
At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths that labor could not fill;
When the thunder of the railroad ceased, and startled towns could spy
A hundred blazing factories painting each midnight sky;
Through Philadelphia's surging streets marched the brown ranks of toil,
The grimy legions of the shops, the tillers of the soil.
White-faced militiamen looked on, while women shrank with dread;
'Twas muscle against money then, 'twas riches against bread.
Once, as the mighty mob tramped on, a carriage stopt the way,
Upon the silken seat of which a young patrician lay;
And as, with haughty glance, he swept along the jeering crowd,
A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks took off his cap and bowed.
That night the Labor League was met, and soon the chairman said,
"There hides a Judas in our midst, one man who bows the head,
Who bends the coward's servile knee when capital rolls by."
"Down with him!" "Kill the traitor cur!" rang out the savage cry.
Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held erect his head of gray:
"I am no traitor, tho I bowed to a rich man's son to-day;
And, tho you kill me as I stand, as like you mean to do,—
I want to tell you a story short, and I ask you'll hear me through.
I was one of those who enlisted first, the old flag to defend;
With Pope and Halleck, with 'Mac' and Grant, I followed to the end.
'Twas somewhere down on the Rapidan, when the Union cause looked drear,
That a regiment of rich young bloods came down to us from here.
Their uniforms were by tailors cut; they brought hampers of good wine;
And every squad had a servant, too, to keep their boots in shine;
They'd naught to say to us dusty 'vets,' and, through the whole brigade
We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth, when we passed them on parade.
Well, they were sent to hold a fort that Rebs tried hard to take,
'Twas the key of all our line, which naught while it held out could break.
But a fearful fight we lost just then, the reserve came up too late,
And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth, hung the whole division's fate.
Three times we tried to take them aid, and each time back we fell,
Tho once we could hear the fort's far guns boom like a funeral knell;
Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up, and then straight through we broke;
How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats still back of the drifting smoke!
With bands all front and our colors spread we swarmed up the parapet,
But the sight that silenced our welcome shout I shall never in life forget.
Four days before had their water gone,—they had dreaded that the most,—
The next, their last scant ration went, and each man looked a ghost
As he stood gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, like a crippled stag at bay,
And watched starvation, not defeat, draw nearer every day.
Of all the Fifth, not fourscore men could in their places stand,
And their white lips told a fearful tale, as we grasped each bloodless hand.
The rest in the stupor of famine lay, save here and there a few
In death sat rigid against the guns, grim sentinels in blue;
And their colonel could not speak or stir, but we saw his proud eye thrill
As he simply glanced to the shot-scarred staff where the old flag floated still!
Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down, while the wolf snarls at our door,
And the men who've risen from us, to laugh at the misery of the poor;
But I tell you, mates, while this weak old hand I have left the strength to lift,
I will touch my cap to the proudest swell who fought in the Dandy Fifth!"

ON LINCOLN
BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! this arm beneath your head!
It is some dream, that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread
Walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

THE LITTLE STOWAWAY
ANONYMOUS

"'Bout three years ago, afore I got this berth as I'm in now, I was second engineer aboard a Liverpool steamer bound for New York. There'd been a lot of extra cargo sent down just at the last minute, and we'd no end of a job stowin' it away, and that ran us late o' startin'; so that, altogether, you may think, the cap'n warn't in the sweetest temper in the world, nor the mate neither. On the mornin' of the third day out from Liverpool, the chief engineer cum down to me in a precious hurry, and says he: 'Tom, what d'ye think? Blest if we ain't found a stowaway!'

"I didn't wait to hear no more, but up on deck like a sky-rocket; and there I did see a sight, and no mistake. Every man-Jack o' the crew, and what few passengers we had aboard, was all in a ring on the fo'c'stle, and in the middle was the fust mate, lookin' as black as thunder. Right in front of him, lookin' a reg'lar mite among them big fellers, was a little bit o' a lad not ten year old—ragged as a scarecrow, but with bright, curly hair, and a bonnie little face o' his own, if it hadn't been so woful and pale. The mate was a great, hulkin', black-bearded feller with a look that 'ud ha' frightened a horse, and a voice fit to make one jump through a keyhole; but the young un warn't a bit afeard—he stood straight up, and looked him full in the face with them bright, clear eyes o' his'n, for all the world as if he was Prince Halferd himself. You might ha' heerd a pin drop, as the mate spoke.

"'Well, you young whelp,' says he, 'what's brought you here?'

"'It was my stepfather as done it,' says the boy, in a weak little voice, but as steady as he could be. 'Father's dead, and mother's married again, and my new father says as how he won't have no brats about eatin' up his wages; and he stowed me away when nobody warn't lookin', and guv me some grub to keep me going' for a day or two till I got to sea. He says I'm to go to Aunt Jane, at Halifax; and here's her address.'

"We all believed every word on't, even without the paper he held out. But the mate says: 'Look here, my lad; that's all very fine, but it won't do here—some o' these men o' mine are in the secret, and I mean to have it out of 'em. Now, you just point out the man as stowed you away and fed you, this very minute; if you don't, it'll be worse for you!'

"The boy looked up in his bright, fearless way (it did my heart good to look at him, the brave little chap!) and says, quietly, 'I've told you the truth; I ain't got no more to say.'

"The mate says nothin', but looks at him for a minute as if he'd see clean through him; and then he sings out to the crew loud enough to raise the dead: 'Reeve a rope to the yard; smart now!'

"'Now, my lad, you see that 'ere rope? Well, I'll give you ten minutes to confess; and if you don't tell the truth afore the time's up, I'll hang you like a dog!'

"The crew all stared at one another as if they couldn't believe their ears (I didn't believe mine, I can tell ye), and then a low growl went among 'em, like a wild beast awakin' out of a nap.

"'Silence there!' shouts the mate, in a voice like the roar of a nor'easter. 'Stan' by to run for'ard!' as he held the noose ready to put it round the boy's neck. The little fellow never flinched a bit; but there was some among the sailors (big strong chaps as could ha' felled an ox) as shook like leaves in the wind. I clutched hold o' a handspike, and held it behind my back, all ready.

"'Tom,' whispers the chief engineer to me, 'd'ye think he really means to do it?'

"'I don't know,' says I, through my teeth; 'but if he does, he shall go first, if I swings for it!'

"I've been in many an ugly scrape in my time, but I never felt 'arf as bad as I did then. Every minute seemed as long as a dozen; and the tick o' the mate's watch, reg'lar, pricked my ears like a pin.

"'Eight minutes,' says the mate, his great, deep voice breakin' in upon the silence like the toll o' a funeral bell. 'If you've got anything to confess, my lad, you'd best out with it, for ye're time's nearly up.'

"'I've told you the truth,' answers the boy, very pale, but as firm as ever. 'May I say my prayers, please?'

"The mate nodded; and down goes the poor little chap on his knees and put up his poor little hands to pray. I couldn't make out what he said, but I'll be bound God heard every word. Then he ups on his feet again, and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly: 'I'm ready.'

"And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, like I've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms, kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think there warn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one.

"'God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with his great hard hand. 'You're a true Englishman, every inch of you; you wouldn't tell a lie to save yer life! Well, if so be as yer father's cast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I ever forget you, then may God forget me!'

"And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out the little un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable; and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be; and to see the pair on 'em together—the little chap so fond of him, and not bearin' him a bit o' grudge—it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever I seed. And now, sir, yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; so I'll just wish yer good-night."

SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY
BY SHAKESPEARE

King Henry. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland?—No, my fair cousin:
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honor.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It years me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it be a sin to covet honor
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called—the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say,—"To-morrow is Saint Crispian":
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,
And say, "These wounds I had on Crispian's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,—
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,—
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd:
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY.

THE C'RRECT CARD
BY GEORGE R. SIMS

"C'rrect card, sir? C'rrect card, sir? What! you've seen my face before? Well I dare say as how you have, sir, and so have many more; but they passes me by without a word—but perhaps it's just as well; a poor crippled chap like me, sir, ain't fit company for a swell. But I've seen the time when they all was proud with me to be talking seen—when I rode for Lord Arthur Forester, and wore the black and green. How did it happen? I'll tell you, sir. You knew little Fanny Flight—old Farmer Flight's one daughter—always so pretty and bright? You used to joke with her sometimes, sir, and say as, if you she'd marry, you'd set up a 'pub' together, an' pitch your folks to Old Harry. You was just down for the holidays, sir, from Oxford, where you were at school; but you only played at being in love, while I ... was a cursed fool! Well, there were lots of 'm after her, sir, what with her ways and face; but I was in earnest, you see, sir, and rode a waiting race. 'Twas one fine April morning, when she came out to see us train, and just as she stood with her little hand holding on by my horse's mane, I felt as how I could do it, and came with a rush, you see, an' I said to her—all of a tremble, sir,—'Fan, will you marry me?' And she blushed an' smiled, an' whinnied, and after a bit she agreed that as soon as I found the money to pay for our keep and feed, why we'd run in harness together. We'd ha' made a tidyish pair; for I weren't a bad looking colt at the time, and she—such a nice little mare! Such a mouth! such a forehead! such action! Ah, well, let 'em say what they may, that's the sort to make running with us, sir,—tho, hang it! they never can stay.

"Well, the time went on, and I rode my best, an' they called me a 'cuteish' chap, and Lord Arthur put me up to ride for the Leicestershire Handicap. Lord Arthur, he was a gentleman—never was stingy or mean—an' he said, 'I'll give you five hundred, my man, if you win with the black and green.' Well, the horse I rode was Rasper; perhaps you remember him?—Black all but one white foot, sir; and a temper!—he'd pull like sin. But jump like a bird if he had a mind—plenty of power and pace—and I knew he had it in him, and I swore I'd win the race. The night before the race came off I went down to Farmer Flight's—they'd got to expect me regular now on Tuesday and Friday nights—and I told her what Lord Arthur said, and how, if I chanced to win, we'd go into double harness on the strength of his lordship's tin. An' she put my colors in her hair, and her arms around my neck, and I felt ... but, hang it! a chap's a fool as can't keep his feelings in check. But then, you sees, sir, I was a fool—a big one as ever was seen—but then I was only twenty when I rode in the black and green. I got up early next morning, an' felt as light as a feather, and I went to start for the stables; and mother she asked me whether I'd not take my flask in my pocket, in case it might come in handy; but 'Mother,' I says, 'when a chap's in love, he don't feel to want any brandy.' And I thought, as I put on a new pair o' spurs, and a jacket bran new and clean, that I'd give long odds that I'd pull it off—ten to one on the black and green. Well, Lord Arthur gave me my orders, and a leg up on to my horse, and I just had taken my canter an' was coming back up the course, when who should I spy but Fanny, in a stylish sort of a trap, talking away like blazes to a dark, long-whiskered chap; but I hadn't time to think of more, for we got the word to start, and Rasper gave a thundering tear that nearly pulled out my heart; an' then I pulled him together, for mine was a waiting race, and I knew that what was to win it was Rasper's pluck not pace. Well, I got round all right the first time; the fences were easy enough—at least to a couple like we were; the only one that was tough was a biggish hedge, with a post and rails; but the taking-off was fair, and I shouldn't call it a dangerous jump, as long as you took it with care. And Rasper! that very morning I said to Lord Arthur, I said, 'I think as that horse there could jump a church, if he took the thing into his head'; an' that morning he went like a lady and looked as bright as a bean, and I knew, if it only lasted, I'd win with the black and green. I was riding Rasper easy, when, just as we passed the stand, it struck me the carriage that Fanny was in was somewhere upon my right hand; and I took a pull at Rasper, and a glance toward that side, and I saw what made me forget the race and forget the way to ride—only a kiss! An' what's a kiss to the like of him and her? But I could not help letting Rasper feel that I wore a long-necked spur; an' tho I set my teeth to be cool and steadied him with the rein, I knew that the devil in Rasper was up, and couldn't be laid again; an' the very next fence, tho I kept him straight, and he went at it after the rest, I could feel that he meant to do his worst, and I couldn't ride my best. For, you know, when a man feels desperate-like, he's no more head than a child, and it's all up with a jock, you see, if he goes at his fences wild. Over the next fence—over the next—till I thought, as my teeth I set, if I only could keep my head to my work, I might pull through with it yet; and I took a pull at Rasper, an' fell back a bit to the tail, for I'd never forget the one difficult spot—the hedge with the post and rail. How it all comes back! We're in the field—now for a rattling burst; for the race is half won by the horse and man that crosses that fence first. I run up to my horses and pass them—I've given Rasper his head; I can hear, some lengths behind me, the trampling and the tread; and now I send him at it firmly but not too fast—he stops—lays his ears back—REFUSES! The devil's come out at last! And I dig in the steel and let him feel the sting of stout whalebone, and I say, 'You shall do it, you devil! if I break your neck and my own.' And the brute gives a squeal, and rushes at the post and rail like mad—no time to rise him at it—not much use if I had; and then ... well, I feel a crash and a blow, and hear a woman scream, and I seem to be dying by inches in a horrid sort of a dream.

"No, thank ye—I'd rather not, sir. You see they ain't all like you; these gents as has plenty of money don't care who they gives it to; but as for stopping an' saying a word, an' hearing a fellow's tale, they'd rather give him a crown, sir, or stand him a quart of ale. But it brings back old times to be talking to you. Ah! the jolly old times as I've seen, when I rode for Lord Arthur (c'rrect card, sir?) and wore the black and green!"

THE ENGINEER'S STORY
BY ROSA H. THORPE

No, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling
A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That'll ring in my head forever,
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was drooping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored,—
Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,
Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight,—
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion
Of the up-grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,
So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,
The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;
But to me—a-hold of the lever—
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready
My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle
As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow
Struck fire through every nerve.
I sounded the brakes, and crashing
The reverse-lever down in dismay,
Groaning to heaven,—eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant,—one, awful and only,
The world flew round in my brain,
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain;
The train I thought flying forever,
With mad, irresistible roll,
While the cries of the dying, the night-wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine—
How I got there I never could tell—
My feet planted down on the crossbar,
Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
And one held out in the night,
While my eye gauged the distance, and measured
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;
I saw the curls of her hair,
And the face that, turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.
I know little more—but I heard it—
The groan of the anguished wheels,
And remember thinking—the engine
In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying
I shall think the old engine reared back,
And as it recoiled, with a shudder
I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a-climbing,
To nestle securely there.
We are not much given to crying—
We men that run on the road—
But that night, they said, there were faces
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning,
As I neared the cabin again,
My hand on the lever prest downward
And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door;
And her look with a fulness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR
BY H. ANTOINE D'ARCY

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" some one said. "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work—
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as tho he thought he'd struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd—
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink—that's what I want—I'm out of funds, you know,
When I had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as tho you thought this pocket never held a sou,
I once was fixt as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do—
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;
Five fingers—there, that's the scheme—and corking whisky, too.
Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame,'
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name.
And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-nor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprize,
Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before a month had flown,
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why I never saw you smile,
I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in your eye,
Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score—
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then as he placed another look upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead.

THE FUNERAL OF THE FLOWERS
BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE

The summer is ended, and we have all been invited to attend the Funeral of the Flowers. It occurred on a long slope which at one side dipt into the warm valleys, and on the other side arose very high into the frosty air, so that on one boundary line lived cactus and orange-blossom and camellia, and on the other resided balsam-pine and Alpine strawberry, and all kinds of growths between.

Living midway that steep slope of land there was a rose, that in common parlance we called "Giant of Battle." It was red and fiery, looking as if it had stood on fields of carnage where the blood dashed to the lip. It was a hero among flowers. Many of the grasses of the field worshiped it as a god, the mignonette burning incense beneath it, the marigold throwing glittering rays of beauty before it, the mistletoe crawling at its feet. The fame of this Giant of Battle was world-wide, and some said that its ancestors on the father's side had stood on the plains of Waterloo, and on its mother's side at Magneta, and drank themselves drunk on human gore. But children are not to blame for what their ancestors do, and this rose, called Giant of Battle, was universally adored.

But the Giant got sick. Whether it was from the poisonous breath of the Nightshade that had insolently kissed him, or from grief at the loss of a Damask-rose that had first won his heart by her blushes, and then died, we know not; but the Giant of Battle was passing rapidly away. There was great excitement up and down the slopes. A consultation of botanical physicians was called, and Doctor Eglantine came and thrust a thorn for a lancet into the Giant's veins, on the principle that he had too much blood and was apoplectic, and Doctor Balm of Gilead attempted to heal the pain by poultices; but still the Giant grew worse and worse. The Primrose called in the evening to see how the dying hero was, and the Morning-glory stopt before breakfast to see if it could do any good. Every flower or grass that called had a prescription for him that would surely cure. Neighbor Horse-sorrel suggested acids, and Honeysuckle proposed sugars, and Myrrh suggested bitters, and Ladies'-slipper, having taken off her shoes, said all the patient wanted was more quiet about the room.

But too much changing of medicine only made the Giant more and more sick, and one afternoon, while sitting up in bed with a cup of honeysuckle to his lips, and with the fan of the south wind fluttering in his face, his head dropt and he died. As the breath went out of him a Clematis that had been overlooking the sad scene, said: "What time is it?" and a cluster of Four-o'clocks answered, "A little past the middle of the afternoon."

The next morning the funeral bells all rang: the Blue-bells and the Canterbury-bells and the Fox-glove-bells and Hare-bells and all the flowerdom came to the obsequies of the Giant of Battle. He was laid out on a trellis, and on a catafalque, such as dead monarchs never had, of dahlia and phlox and magnolia and geranium and gladiola. There was a great audience of flowers. Solemnity came down upon them. Even the Cock's-comb stopt strutting, and Larkspur ceased her fickleness, and Snapdragon looked gentle, and Snowdrop seemed to melt, and Bachelor's-button wished it had some one to express its grief to. The Passion-flower came in and threw herself on the pale cheek of the Giant with most ardent demonstration of affection. Amaranth and Hydrangea and Daffodil and Spiderwort and Spiræa having come far from the night and dew, stood around with their eyes full of tears.

The funeral services began. Rose of Sharon and Lily of the Valley took part in them. The Star of Bethlehem sang a hymn to the tune of Bonny Doon. Forget-me-not said a few words of commemoration. Then Heartsease arose for the work of comfort, and read the lesson of the day: "As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." And all the bells, Fox-glove-bells and Blue-bells and Canterbury-bells and Hare-bells, prolonged the strain through all that day, tolling, tolling out, "No more! no more!"

CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY
BY JOSEPH ADDISON

It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

OPPORTUNITY
BY JOHN J. INGALLS

Master of human destinies am I
Fame, love and fortune, on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk, I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote—and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,
I knock unbidden once at every gate—
If sleeping, wake, if feasting, rise, before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate
And they who follow me, reach every state

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death: but those who doubt or hesitate
Condemned to failure, penury and wo,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore;
I answer not and I return no more.

OPPORTUNITY'S REPLY
BY WALTER MALONE

They do me wrong who say I come no more,
When once I knock and fail to find you in:
For every day I stand outside your door,
And bid you wake and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious changes passed away;
Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
Each night I burn the records of the day;
At sunrise every soul is born again.

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;
To vanished joys be blind, and deaf and dumb;
My judgments seat the dead past with its dead,
But never bind a moment yet to come.

THE ERL-KING
BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
(Translated by Sir Walter Scott)

Oh, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?
It is the fond father embracing his child,
And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?"
"Oh, 'tis the Erl-king with his crown and his shroud."
"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

"Oh, come and go with me, thou loveliest child;
By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy."

"O father, my father, and did you not hear
The Erl-king whisper so low in my ear?"
"Be still, my heart's darling—my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."

"Oh, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?
My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;
She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild,
And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."

"O father, my father, and saw you not plain,
The Erl-king's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?"
"Oh, yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;
It was the gray willow that danced to the moon."

"Oh, come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away."
"O father! O father! now, now keep your hold,
The Erl-king has seized me—his grasp is so cold!"

Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child.
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!

CARCASSONNE
BY M. E. W. SHERWOOD

How old I am! I'm eighty years. I've worked both hard and long,
Yet patient as my life has been, one dearest sight I have not seen,
It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life was young.
Alas! our dreams, they come not true.
I thought to see fair Carcassonne,
That lovely city, Carcassonne.

One sees it dimly from the height beyond the mountain blue.
Fain would I walk five weary leagues, I do not mind the road's fatigues,
Thro' morn and evening's dew.
But bitter frosts would fall at night, and on the grapes that withered blight,
I could not go to Carcassonne,
I never went to Carcassonne.

They say it is as gay all times as holidays at home.
The gentles ride in gay attire, and in the sun each gilded spire
Shoots up like those at Rome.
The bishop the procession leads, the generals curb their prancing steeds.
Alas! I saw not Carcassonne.
Alas! I know not Carcassonne.
Our vicar's right. He preaches loud and bids us to beware.
He says, "Oh, guard the weakest part and most the traitor in the heart
Against ambition's snare."
Perhaps in autumn I can find two sunny days with gentle wind,
I then could go to Carcassonne,
I still could go to Carcassonne.

My God and Father, pardon me, if this my wish offends.
One sees some hope more high than he in age, as in his infancy
To which his heart ascends.
My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, my grandson went to Perpignan,
But I have not seen Carcassonne,
But I have not seen Carcassonne.

Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, half dreaming in his chair.
I said, "My friend, come, go with me to-morrow; thine eyes shall see those streets
That seem so fair."
That night there came for passing soul the church-bell's low and solemn toll.
He never saw gay Carcassonne.
Who has not known a Carcassonne?

THE MUSICIANS
ANONYMOUS

The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary,
The strains of sorrow that sighed around;
The notes of my heart sang blithe and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
But sometimes a discord was heard by others
Tho only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder and faster and faster,
The hands of those brothers played strain on strain,
Till, all of a sudden a mighty master
Swept them aside, and Pain,
Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner,
Resting the strings of my quivering heart;
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start.
Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
As shrill, as solemn, as sad as slow,
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of wo.
With skilful hands that were never weary,
This master of music played strain on strain;
And between the bars of the Miserere
He drew up the strings of my heart again.
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder
To see that they did not break in two;
They are drawn so tight they will snap asunder
I thought, but instead they grew
In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger,
And I could hear on the stilly air;
Now my ears were deafened by mirth no longer,
The sounds of sorrow, and grief and despair.
And my soul grew tender and kind to others;
My nature grew sweeter and my mind grew broad
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod,
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,
There was no discord to mar the strain,
For Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner,
Attuned the strings with a master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always sweet and grand.

ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK
ANONYMOUS

The sun had set, and in the distant west
The last red streaks had faded; night and rest
Fell on the earth; stilled was the cannon's roar;
And many a soldier slept to wake no more.
'Twas early spring—a calm and lovely night—
The moon had flooded all the earth with light.
On either side the Rappahannock lay
The armies; resting till the break of day
Should call them to renew the fight. So near
Together were the camps that each could hear
The other's sentry call. And now appear
The blazing bivouac fires on every hill,
And save the tramp of pickets all is still.
Between those silent hills in beauty flows
The Rappahannock. How its bosom glows!
How all its sparkling waves reflect the light
And add new glories to the starlit night!
But hark! From Northern hill there steal along
The strains of martial music mixed with song:
"Star Spangled Banner, may'st thou ever wave,
Over the land we shed our blood to save!"
And still they sing those words: "Our cause is just.
We'll triumph in the end; in God we trust;
Star Spangled Banner, wave, forever wave,
Over a land united, free and brave!"
Scarce had this died away when along
The river rose another glorious song:
A thousand lusty throats the chorus sing:
With "Rally Round the Flag," the hilltops ring.
And well they sang. Each heart was filled with joy.
From first in rank to little drummer-boy.
The loud huzzas and wildest cheers were given,
That seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven.
The Union songs, the loud and heartfelt cheers
Fall in the Southern camp on listening ears.

While talking at their scanty evening meal
They pause and grasp their trusty blades of steel.
Fearless they stand and ready for the fray;
Such sounds can startle them, but not dismay.
Alas! Those strains of music which of yore
Could rouse their hearts are felt by them no more.
When the last echo of the song had died
And all was silent on the Northern side,
There came from Southern hill, with gentle swell,
The air of "Dixe," which was loved so well
By every man that wore the coat of gray,
And is revered and cherished to this day.
"In Dixie's Land" they swore to live and die,
That was their watchword, that their battle-cry.
Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell,
Resounding over every hill and dell.
Cheer after cheer went up that starry night
From men as brave as ever saw the light.
Now all is still. Each side has played its part.
How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart!
But hark! O'er Rappahannock's stream there floats
Another tune; but ah! how sweet the notes.
Not such as lash men's passions into foam,
But—richest gem of song—'tis "Home, Sweet Home!"
Played by the band, it reached the very soul,
And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drops stole.
On either side the stream, from North and South,
Men who would march up to the cannon's mouth
Wept now like children. Tender hearts and true
Were beating 'neath those coats of gray and blue.
The sentry stopt and rested on his gun,
While back to home his thoughts unhindered run.
He thought of loving wife and children there
Deprived of husband's and of father's care.
And stripling lads, scarce strong enough to bear
The weight of saber or of knapsack, tried
To stop their tears with foolish, boyish pride.
They might as well have sought to stop the tide!

Through both those hostile camps the music stole
And stirred each soldier to his inmost soul.
From North and South, in sympathy, there rose
A shout tremendous; forgetting they were foes,
Both armies joined and shouted with one voice
That seemed to make the very heavens rejoice.

Sweet music's power! One chord doth make us wild.
But change the strain, we weep as little child.
Touch yet another, men charge the battery-gun,
And by those martial strains a victory's won!
But there's one strain that friends and foes will win,
One magic touch that makes the whole world kin:
No heart so cold, but will, tho far it roam,
Respond with tender thrill to "Home, Sweet Home!"

COMO
BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The red-clad fishers row and creep
Below the craigs, as half asleep,
Nor even make a single sound.
The walls are steep,
The waves are deep;
And if the dead man should be found
By these same fishers in their round,
Why, who shall say but he was drowned?

The lake lay bright, as bits of broken moon
Just newly set within the cloven earth;
The ripened fields drew round a golden girth
Far up the steppes, and glittered in the noon.
And when the sun fell down, from leafy shore
Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar.
The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue;
From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through
The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew.

A gala night it was—the season's prime;
We rode from castled lake to festal town,
To fair Milan—my friend and I; rode down
By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme;
And so what theme but love in such a time?
His proud lip curved the while in silent scorn
At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn,
He sighed, then bared his temples, dashed with gray,
Then mocked, as one outworn and well blasé.

A gorgeous tiger-lily, flaming red,
So full of battle, of the trumpets blare,
Of old-time passion, upreared its head.
I galloped past, I leaned, I clutched it there.
From out the long, strong grass I held it high,
And cried, "Lo! this to-night shall deck her hair
Through all the dance. And mark! the man shall die
Who dares assault, for good or ill design,
The citadel where I shall set this sign."

He spoke no spare word all the after while.
That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his!
Why, better men have died for less than this.
Then in the hall the same old hateful smile!
Then marvel not that when she graced the floor,
With all the beauties gathered from the four
Far quarters of the world, and she, my fair,
The fairest, wore within her midnight hair
My tiger-lily—marvel not, I say,
That he glared like some wild beast well at bay!

Oh, she shone fairer than the summer star,
Or curled sweet moon in middle destiny.
More fair than sunrise climbing up the sea,
Where all the loves of Ariadne are.
Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof,
The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof
Of shallow waters—all the while afar
From out the dance I stood, and watched my star,
My tiger-lily, borne an oriflamme of war.

A thousand beauties flashed at love's advance,
Like bright white mice at moonlight in their play,
Or sunfish shooting in the shining bay,
The swift feet shot and glittered in the dance.
Oh, have you loved, and truly loved, and seen
Aught else the while than your own stately queen?
Her presence, it was majesty—so tall;
Her proud development encompassed—all.
She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her.
I followed as some fervid worshiper.

Adown the dance she moved with matchless pace.
The world—my world—moved with her. Suddenly
I questioned whom her cavalier might be.
'Twas he! His face was leaning to her face!
I clutched my blade; I sprang; I caught my breath,
And so stood leaning still as death.
And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore
The lily as she passed, and down the floor
She strewed its heart like bits of gushing gore.

'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break.
He taught me this that night in splendid scorn.
I learned too well. The dance was done. Ere morn
We mounted—he and I—but no more spake.
And this for woman's love! My lily worn
In her dark hair in pride to be thus torn
And trampled on for this bold stranger's sake!
Two men rode silent back toward the lake.
Two men rode silent down, but only one
Rode up at morn to greet the rising sun.
The walls are steep,
The waves are deep;
And if the dead man should be found
By red-clad fishers in their round,
Why, who shall say but he was—drowned?

AUX ITALIENS
BY OWEN MEREDITH

At Paris it was, at the Opera there;
And she looked like a queen in a book, that night,
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch on her breast, so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me?"

The emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave, as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city-gate,
Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye.
You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,
For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To the old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front-row box we sat
Together, my bride-betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixt on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.
Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not yet to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love,
As I had not been thinking of aught for years,
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot),
And her warm, white neck in its golden chain.
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmine-flower in her fair, young breast;
Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower,
And the one bird singing alone to his nest,
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring,
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over.
And I thought ... "were she only living still,
How I could forgive her and love her."

And I swear, as I thought thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower,
Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
When a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned and looked. She was sitting there
In a dim box, over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there,
And the glittering horseshoe curved between—
From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair,
And her sumptuous, scornful mien.

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade
(In short, from the Future back to the Past),
There was but one step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,
I traversed the passage; and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,
Or something which never will be exprest,
Had brought her back from the grave again,
With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now, and she loved me then!
And the very first word that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,
She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,
And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass—
She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,
With her primrose face; for old things are best,
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,
And Love must cling where it can, I say;
For Beauty is easy enough to win,
But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.

But oh, the smell of that jasmine-flower!
And oh, that music! and oh, the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me, non ti scordar di me!

---

INDEX

A

Adams, Charles Fallen, [185]

Adeler, Max, [141]

A-feared of a Gal, [237]

Afternoon, One, [196]

Agnes, I Lore Thee!, [81]

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, [47]

Almost Beyond Endurance, [89]

Amateur Night, [98]

Amsbary, Wallace Bruce, [107]

And She Cried, [68]

Anstey, F., [210]

At Five-o'clock Tea, [143]

At the Restaurant, [235]

Aux Italiens, [322]

B

Bachelor Sews on a Button, How a, [154]

Bailey, James M., [57]

Baine, William, [282]

Banging a Sensational Novelist, [83]

Barbara Frietchie, Parody on, [137]

Bary Jade, Lides to, [168]

Becky Miller, [115]

Before and After, [139]

Belagcholly Days, [93]

Bengaugh, J. W., [110]

Beyond Endurance, Almost, [89]

Big Mistake, A, [129]

Big Words, Don't Use, [163]

Billy of Nebraska, [110]

Blackstonian Circumlocution, His, [233]

Blossom, Henry M., Jr., [152]

Book Agent, The Merchant and the, [134]

Boss, John C., [247]

Bounding the United States, [101]

Boy, Dot Leetle, [69]

Boy, Papa and the, [208]

Bradley, Mary E., [154]

Break, Break, Break, [277]

Bridegroom's Toast, The, [203]

Brooks, Fred Emerson, [40]

Burbank, [261]

Burdette, Robert J., [199]

Burton, Richard, [267]

Byron, [269]

C

Candidate, The, [193]

Carcassonne, [314]

Card, The C'rrect, [300]

Cards, Life Compared to a Game of, [289]

Carlotta Mia, [228]

Casey at the Bat, [147]

Casuistry, Cupid's, [39]

Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality, [311]

Chance, They Met by, [203]

"Charlie Must Not Ring To-night", [169]

Checkers, A Friendly Game of, [150]

Christopher Columbus, [155]

Circumlocution, His Blackstonian, [233]

Coles, Cynthia, [146]

Como, [319]

Content, I Am, [274]

Coon's Lullaby, The, [136]

Corydon, [47]

Counting Eggs, [86]

Counting One Hundred, [57]

Crooked Mouth Family, The, [122]

C'rrect Card, The, [300]

Cupid's Casuistry, [39]

Curfew, The Elocutionist's, [24]

Cyclopeedy, The, [239]

D

Daly, T. A., [114], [228]

Dandy Fifth, The, [293]

Da 'Mericana Girl, [114]

D'Arcy, H. Antoine, [306]

Davis, Daniel Webster, [49]

Dead Kitten, The, [33]

Desprez, F., [284]

Dialectic Sketch, A Lancashire, [232]

Dickens, Charles, [216]

Difficulty of Riming, The, [179]

Doctor Marigold, [216]

Dog und der Lobster, Der, [102]

Don't Use Big Words, [163]

Dot lambs Vot Mary Haf Got, [112]

Dot Leedle Boy, [69]

Double, and How He Undid Me, My, [171]

Drummond, W. H., [271]

Dunbar, Paul Laurence, [35], [153]

Dundreary's Letter, Lord, [131]

Dunne, Finlay Peter, [73]

Dutchman's Serenade, The, [220]

E

Eagle's Song, The, [275]

Earl King, The, [313]

Echo, [244]

Edwards, H. S., [44]

Ehrmann, Max, [98]

Eggs, Counting, [86]

Elocutionist's Curfew, The, [24]

Enchanted Shirt, The, [183]

Endurance, Almost Beyond, [89]

Engineer's Story, The, [303]

Eve of Waterloo, The, [269]

F

Face Upon the Floor, The, [306]

Faith, The Ship of, [187]

Fairies' Tea, The, [85]

Familiar Lines, [149]

Fan, A Lesson with the, [50]

Feller, A little, [126]

Father's Way, [272]

Field, Eugene, [239], [272]

Fiend, The Weather, [34]

Fifteen Minutes, Her, [28]

Finnigan to Flannigan, [175]

Fiske, John, [101]

Five-o'clock Tea, At, [143]

Flannigan, Finnigan to, [175]

Flowers, The Funeral of the, [309]

Foss, S. W., [213], [287]

Fly, The, [156]

Foolin', Quit Your, [250]

Fool's Prayer, The, [268]

Foxes' Tails, The, [29]

Freckled-face Girl, The, [96]

Funeral of the Flowers, The, [309]

G

Gal, A-feared of a, [237]

Gassaway, F. H., [293]

Georga Washingdone, [113]

Gib Him One ub Mine, [49]

Gilbert, W. S., [157]

Gillinan, S. W., [175]

Girl, The Freckled-face, [96]

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, [313]

Gorilla, The, [82]

Grape-seed, [190]

Grilley, Charles T., [39], [139]

Greek Meets Greek, When, [140]

H

Hale, Edward Everett, [171]

Hammock, Romance of a, [173]

Harbour, J. L., [208]

Harp of a Thousand Strings, The, [177]

Hat in the Pit, The Obstructive, [210]

Hatton, Henry, [104]

Hay, John, [183]

He Laughed Last, [103]

Heaton, John L., [160]

Henry the Fifth's Wooing, [254]

Hens, Lavery's, [201]

He Wanted to Know, [188]

Her Fifteen Minutes, [28]

His Blackstonian Circumlocution, [233]

His Leg Shot Off, [224]

Hood, Thomas, [78]

Hopkins' Last Moments, [84]

How a Bachelor Sews on a Button, [154]

Hullo, [213]

Huntley, Stanley, [204]

I

I Am Content, [274]

Idyl on "Grass," A Spring, [52]

Idyl, A Twilight, [199]

If I Can Be By Her, [65]

If We Had the Time, [267]

I Knew He Would Come if I Waited, [76]

"Imph-M", [124]

Ingalls, John J., [312]

Introducin' the Speecher, [54]

Introduction, An, [177]

Irish Philosopher, The, [91]

Irving, Minna, [68]

Irwin, Wallace, [229]

Italiens, Aux, [322]

I Tol' Yer So, [160]

J

Joke, Leaving Out the, [238]

Julie Plante, The Wreck of the, [271]

K

Khan, The, [225]

Katie's Answer, [79]

Katrina Likes Me Poody Vell, [234]

Keep A'goin'!, [145]

Kerr, Joe, [161]

King, Byron W., [42]

King, Benjamin Franklin, [65]

Kiser, S. E., [95]

Kitten, The Dead, [33]

Kleiser, Grenville, [60]

L

Lamb, The Original, [95]

Lambs Vot Mary Haf Got, Dot, [112]

Lampton, W. J., [39]

Lancashire Dialectic Sketch, A, [232]

Lariat Bill, [192]

Lasca, [284]

Last Moments, Hopkins', [84]

Laughed Last, He, [103]

Laughton, James L., [251]

Lavery's Hens, [201]

Leacock, Stephen, [25]

Leaving Out the Joke, [238]

Leg Shot Off, His, [224]

Lesson with the Fan, A, [50]

Letter, Lord Dundreary's, [131]

Lever, Charles, [222]

Life Compared to a Game of Cards, [289]

Lides to Bary Jade, [168]

Lincoln, On, [296]

Lisp, [202]

Little Stowaway, The, [296]

Loomis, Charles Battell, [167]

Lord Dundreary's Letter, [131]

Lover's Quarrel, A, [146]

Love's Moods and Senses, [77]

"L," Song of the, [60]

Lullaby, [153]

Lullaby, The Coon's, [136]

M

Macaulay, [277]

MacDonald, George, [118]

Malone, Walter, [312]

Malone, Widow, [222]

Mammy's Li'l Boy, [44]

Man Who Will Make a Speech, The, [227]

Mansfield, Richard, [275]

Marketing, [52]

Married Life, Ups and Downs of, [121]

Mason, She Would be a, [251]

Masson, Tom, [28]

Mayor, Pat and the, [116]

McCarthy and McManus, [66]

Melpomenus Jones, [25]

Merchant and the Book Agent, The, [134]

Meredith, Owen, [322]

'Mericana Girl, Da, [114]

Miller, Joaquin, [319]

Mistake, A Big, [129]

Mr. Dooley on the Grip, [73]

Mr. Potts' Story, [141]

Modern Romance, [152]

Morgan, Carrie Blake, [51]

Morris, Joshua S., [177]

Mule Stood on der Steamboat Deck, Der, [164]

Mumbles Head, The Women of, [279]

Musicians, The, [315]

My Double, and How He Undid Me, [171]

N

"Nancy Bell," The Yarn of the, [157]

Nesbit, W. D., [24]

New School Reader, The, [165]

Nocturnal Sketch, A, [78]

Norah Murphy and the Spirits, [104]

Nothing Suited Him, [126]

Not In It, [198]

Nye, Bill, [193]

O

Oak und der Vine, Der, [185]

Oatmobile, The, [87]

Obstructive Hat in the Pit, The, [210]

Old Daddy Turner, [290]

One Afternoon, [196]

On Lincoln, [296]

On the Rappahannock, [317]

Opie Read, [107]

Opportunity, [312]

Opportunity, An, [190]

Opportunity's Reply, [312]

Oracle, The Village, [62]

Organist, The Volunteer, [287]

Original Lamb, The, [95]

Our Railroads, [245]

P

Papa and the Boy, [208]

Parody on Barbara Frietchie, [137]

Passion, The Ruling, [219]

Pat and the Mayor, [116]

Pat's Reason, [249]

Philosopher, The Irish, [91]

Phrases, Slang, [133]

Poor Was Mad, The, [167]

Prayer, The Fool's, [268]

Presentation of the Trumpet, [162]

Proof Positive, [90]

Q

Quarrel, A Lover's, [146]

Quarreled, They Never, [58]

Quit Your Foolin', [250]

R

Race Question, The, [35]

Railroads, Our, [245]

Rainy Day Episode, A, [75]

Rappahannock, On the, [317]

Reader, The New School, [165]

Reason, Pat's, [249]

Reason Why, The, [154]

Rehearsing for Private Theatricals, [204]

Reply, Opportunity's, [312]

Restaurant, At the, [235]

Riley, James Whitcomb, [23], [69], [89]

Riming, The Difficulty of, [179]

Ring To-night, Charlie Must Not, [169]

"Rip Van Winkle," Scenes from, [261]

Rivals, Scenes from the, [258]

Robin Tamson's Smiddy, [127]

Roche, James Jeffrey, [206]

Rodger, Alexander, [127]

Romance, Modern, [152]

Romance of a Hammock, [173]

Ruling Passion, The, [219]

S

Saint Crispian's Day, [299]

Saxe, John G., [244]

Scott, Clement, [279]

Sensational Novelist, Banging a, [83]

Serenade, The Dutchman's, [220]

Sermon, A Short, [231]

Shakespeare, [254], [299]

She Would Be a Mason, [251]

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, [258]

Sherwood, M. E. W., [314]

Ship of Faith, The, [187]

Shirt, The Enchanted, [183]

Short Encore, A, [170]

Short Sermon, A, [231]

Sill, Edward Rowland, [268]

Sims, George R., [300]

Siviter, William H., [219]

Slang Phrases, [133]

Smiddy, Robin Tamson's, [127]

Smiley, Joseph Bert, [181]

Song, The Eagle's, [275]

Song of the "L.", [60]

So Was I, [181]

"'Späcially Jim", [80]

Speecher, Introducin' the, [54]

Speech, The Man Who Will Make a, [227]

Spirits, Norah Murphy and the, [104]

Spring Idyl on "Grass," A, [52]

Stanton, Frank L., [145]

Story, The Engineer's, [303]

Stowaway, The Little, [296]

Stuttering Umpire, The, [225]

Sylva, Carmen, [274]

T

Talmadge, T. De Witt, [309]

Telephone, The Dutchman's, [214]

Tell and His Boy, William, [282]

Tennyson, Alfred, [277]

Thayer, Phineas, [147]

Theatricals, Rehearsing for Private, [204]

They Never Quarreled, [58]

Thorpe, Rosa H., [303]

Time, If We Had the, [267]

Toast, The Bridegroom's, [203]

Total Annihilation, [120]

Train, Misses the, [23]

Tramp, The, [292]

Trumpet, Presentation of the, [162]

Turner, Old Daddy, [290]

Twain, Mark, [177]

Twilight Idyl, A, [199]

U

Undertow, The, [51]

United States, Bounding the, [101]

Umpire, The Stuttering, [225]

Ups and Downs of Married Life, The, [121]

Usual Way, The, [125]

V

V-a-s-e, The, [206]

Vassar Girl, The, [229]

Village Choir, The, [108]

Village Oracle, The, [62]

Virginius, [277]

Volunteer Organist, The, [287]

W

Wade, Morris, [143]

Wakin' the Young 'Uns, [247]

Watchin' the Sparkin', [40]

Waterloo, The Eve of, [269]

Waterman, Nixon, [52]

Way, Father's, [272]

Way, The Usual, [125]

Way of a Woman, The, [42]

Weather Fiend, The, [34]

When Greek Meets Greek, [140]

When Ma Lady Yawns, [39]

When Pa Was a Boy, [95]

When the Woodbine Turns Red, [38]

Whitman, Walt, [296]

Widow Malone, [222]

William Tell and His Boy, [282]

Williamson, H. G., [76]

Willie, [98]

Wind and the Moon, The, [118]

Woman, The Ways of a, [42]

Women of Mumbles Head, The, [279]

Woodbine Turns Red, When the, [38]

Wreck of the Julie Plante, The, [271]

Y

Yacht Club Speech, The, [43]

Yarn of the "Nancy Bell," The, [157]

Yawns, When Ma Lady, [39]

"You Git Up!", [161]

---

How to Develop
Power and Personality

in Speaking

By GRENVILLE KLEISER

Author of "How to Speak in Public." Introduction by Lewis O. Brastow, D.D., Professor Emeritus, Yale Divinity School

This new book gives practical suggestions and exercises for Developing Power and Personality in Speaking. It has many selections for practise.

POWER.—Power of Voice—Power of Gesture—Power of Vocabulary-Power of Imagination—Power of English Style—Power of Illustration—Power of Memory—Power of Extempore Speech—Power of Conversation—Power of Silence—Power of a Whisper—Power of the Eye.

PERSONALITY.—More Personality for the Lawyer—The Salesman—The Preacher—The Politician—The Physician—The Congressman—The Alert Citizen.

"I give it my hearty commendation. It should take its place upon the library shelves of every public speaker; be read carefully, consulted frequently, and held as worthy of faithful obedience. For lack of the useful hints that here abound, many men murder the truth by their method of presenting it."—S. Parkes Cadman, D.D., Brooklyn, N. Y.

12mo, Cloth, 443 Pages. $1.60, Net; by mail, $1.74

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK and LONDON

---

HOW TO SPEAK IN PUBLIC

A Most Suggestive and Practical Self-Instructor

By GRENVILLE KLEISER

Author of "Power and Personality in Speaking," etc.

This new book is a complete elocutionary manual comprizing numerous exercises for developing the speaking voice, deep breathing, pronunciation, vocal expression, and gesture; also selections for practise from masterpieces of ancient and modern eloquence. It is intended for students, teachers, business men, lawyers, clergymen, politicians, clubs, debating societies, and, in fact, every one interested in the art of public speaking.

OUTLINE OF CONTENTS

Mechanics of Elocution
Mental Aspects
Public Speaking
Selections for Practise
Previous Preparation
Physical Preparation
Mental Preparation
Moral Preparation
Preparation of Speech

"It is admirable and practical instruction in the technic of speaking, and I congratulate you upon your thorough work."—Hon. Albert J. Beveridge.

"The work has been very carefully and well compiled from a large number of our best works on the subject of elocution. It contains many admirable suggestions for those who are interested in becoming better speakers. As a general text for use in teaching public speaking, it may be used with great success."—John W. Wetzel, formerly Instructor in Public Speaking, Yale University, New Haven, Conn.

12mo, Cloth. $1.60, net; post-paid, $1.74

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK and LONDON

---

HERE'S A MERRY BOOK BY A MERRY MAN

THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE STREET

By MARSHALL P. WILDER

Author of "Smiling 'Round the World"

"His book—like American conversation—is made up of anecdotes. He talks intimately of Richard Croker, President McKinley, President Harrison, Joseph Jefferson, Senator Depew, Henry Watterson, Gen. Horace Porter, Augustin Daly, Henry Irving, Buffalo Bill, King Edward VII., Mrs. Langtry, and a host of other personages, large and small, and medium-sized. He tells many good stories. We can recommend his book as cheerful reading."—New York Times.

"What the editor thinks of it may be summed up in the statement that he uses it instead of calling the doctor."—Burlington Hawk-Eye.

"Reading the book is like listening to a humorous lecture by Marshall P. Wilder, full of wit and brightness, and it will cheer and comfort the most morose man or woman just to read it."—Baltimore American.

12mo, Cloth. Humorous Pen-and-Ink Sketches by Bart Haley. Frontispiece Portrait of Mr. Wilder.

Price $1.50, Net; Post-Paid, $1.64

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK and LONDON

---

ANOTHER ROARING FUN BOOK!

SMILING 'ROUND THE WORLD

By MARSHALL P. WILDER

Author of "The Sunny Side of the Street"

"Laugh and the world laughs with you" can be truly said of Marshall P. Wilder, the captivating entertainer of Presidents, Kings, Princes, and the great public. As the Hon. Chauncey M. Depew says, "His mirth is contagious," and as the Right Hon. Henry Labouchere remarked, "He makes melancholy fly apace." You'll find laughs bubbling all through this new book.

SOME OPINIONS FROM THE NEWSPAPERS

"There are many cheerful, amusing incidents of travel. It is a very readable and entertaining book."—Democrat and Chronicle, Rochester, N. Y.

"A marvelous lot of 'sunny stuff' is to be found in Mr. Wilder's latest book. He merrily prattles of a thousand different things and of as many different people."—Record, Philadelphia, Pa.

"Written in that bright, breezy manner, with its mingled touches of humor and pathos and keen scrutiny of human nature so characteristic of Mr. Wilder."—Post, Boston, Mass.

12mo, Cloth, Profusely Illustrated. Price, $1.50, Net; Post-paid, $1.64

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers

NEW YORK and LONDON