We read thee wrong; the untrained eye
Does not see always with precision.
The train we thought to travel by
[Footnote Dagger: Runs only on North-west division.]
Again, undaunted, we look at
The hieroglyphs, and as a rule a
Small double dagger shows us that
[Footnote SmallDoubleDagger: Train does not stop at Ashtabula.]
And when we take a certain line
On Tues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., or
Monday,
We're certain to detect the sign:
[Footnote SectionMark: $10 extra fare ex. Sunday. ]
Heck Junction—Here she comes! Fft! Whiz!
A scurry—and the train has flitted!
Again we look. We find it—viz.,
[Footnote DoubleBar: Train does not stop where time omitted.]
Through hieroglyphic seas we wade—
Print is so cold and so unfeeling.
The train we wait at Neverglade
[Footnote Paragraph: Connects with C. & A. at Wheeling.]
Now hungrily the sheet we scan,
Grimy with travel, thirsty, weary,
And then—nothing is sadder than
[Footnote PointingHand: No diner on till after Erie.]
Yet, cursed as is every sign,
The cussedest that we can quote is
This treacherous and deadly line:
[Footnote TripleAsterisk: Subject to change without our notice.]
Sporadic Fiction
Why not a poem as they treat
The stories in the magazines?
"Eustacia's lips were very sweet.
He stooped to"-and here intervenes
A line—italics—telling one
Where one may learn the things that he,
The noble hero, had begun.
(Continuation on page 3.)
Page 3—oh, here it is—no, here—
"Kiss them. Eustacia hung her head;
Whereat he said, 'Eustacia dear'—
And sweetly low Eustacia said:"
(Continued on page 17.)
Here, just between the corset ad.
And that of Smithers' Canderine.
(Eustacia sweet, you drive me mad.)