ENVOY
The critics still will slash and slay
Poor hapless scribes, in sanctum nooks;
Lo! here's a refuge for their prey—
The easy road of "How To" books!
THE TREE-TOAD
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
"'Scurious-like," said the tree-toad,
"I've twittered fer rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And I hollered till noon—
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at heart, and sick at soul!
"Dozed away fer an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin;
And I sung, and sung,
Till I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now,
There're nothin' in singin', anyhow!
"Once in awhile some farmer
Would come a-drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh—
Till I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain till I thought my th'oat
Would bust right open at ever' note!
"But I fetched her! O I fetched her!—
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
Sayin',—'Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"