Stung with remorse and mosquitoes, this miserable young man, in a fit of frenzy, unsheathed his glittering dry-goods scissors, cut off four yards (good measure) of the Canada Line, and hanged himself on a Willow Tree. Requiescat in Tape. His stick drifted to My Country, 'tis of thee! And may be seen, in connection with many others, on the stage of any New York theatre every night.
The Canadians won't have any line pretty soon. The skedaddlers will steal it. Then the Canadians won't know whether they're in the United States or not, in which case they may be drafted.
Mabel married a Brigadier-General, and is happy.
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In a sumptuously furnished parlor in Fifth Avenue, New York, sat a proud and haughty belle. Her name was Isabel Sawtelle. Her father was a millionaire, and his ships, richly laden, ploughed many a sea.
By the side of Isabel Sawtelle sat a young man with a clear, beautiful eye, and a massive brow.
"I must go," he sed, "the foreman will wonder at my absence."
"The foreman?" asked Isabel in a tone of surprise.
"Yes, the foreman of the shop where I work."