I parted from my brave old corps: ’twere matter, friends, for tears,

To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for years.

I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease.

There, boys, I’ve told you all my tale, now let me smoke in peace.

—James Boyle O’Reilly.

Published by special permission.

[Gestures.]

Read This if You Can.

Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for his train and reading the Tribune, when a squadron of street Arabs (incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable gestures of heinous exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.