HUSBAND AND HEATHEN

O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia, And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan, Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes, And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan; And she said she loved 'em so, Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo. If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly Loaded down with jam and jelly, Succotash and vermicelli, Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie. She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee And give cake in fullest measure To the men of Australasia And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea; And the Anthropophagi, All their lives deprived of pie, She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince; And those miserable Australians And the Borrioboolighalians, She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince. But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers, Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf; If the men of Madagascar, And the natives of Alaska, Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself. And his coat had but one tail And he used a shingle nail To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work; And she used to spend his money To buy sugar-plums and honey For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk. Sam Walter Foss.

THE LOST PLEIAD

'Twas a pretty little maiden
In a garden gray and old,
Where the apple trees were laden
With the magic fruit of gold;
But she strayed beyond the portal
Of the garden of the Sun,
And she flirted with a mortal,
Which she oughtn't to have done!

For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother,
She was Merope or Sterope—the one or else the other;
And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich,
Of Merope or Sterope—I don't remember which!
Now the giant's daughters seven,
She among them, if you please,
Were translated to the heaven
As the starry Pleiades!
But amid their constellation
One alone was always dark,
For she shrank from observation
Or censorious remark.
She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter.
She was Merope or Sterope—the former or the latter;
So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call
On Merope or Sterope—I am not sure at all!
But the Dog-star, brightly shining
In the hottest of July,
Saw the pretty Pleiad pining
In the shadow of the sky,
And he courted her and kissed her
Till she kindled into light;
And the Pleiads' erring sister
Was the lady of the night!
So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned,
To Merope or Sterope—the first or else the second,
And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame
As Merope or Sterope—I can't recall her name!
Arthur Reed Ropes.

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN

They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,
For all their fuss and search;
They've done just as they said they'd do,
And fetched it into church.
They're bound the critter shall be seen,
And on the preacher's right
They've hoisted up their new machine
In everybody's sight.
They've got a chorister and choir,
Ag'in' my voice and vote;
For it was never my desire
To praise the Lord by note.
I've been a sister good an' true
For five-an'-thirty year;
I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;
I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,
Just as the preacher read,
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,
I took the fork an' led;
And now, their bold, new-fangled ways
Is comin' all about;
And I, right in my latter days,
Am fairly crowded out!
To-day the preacher, good old dear,
With tears all in his eyes,
Read, "I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies."
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn—
I s'pose I al'ays will—
It somehow gratifies my whim,
In good old Ortonville;
But when that choir got up to sing,
I couldn't catch a word;
They sung the most dog-gondest thing
A body ever heard!
Some worldly chaps was standin' near;
An' when I see them grin,
I bid farewell to every fear,
And boldly waded in.
I thought I'd chase their tune along,
An' tried with all my might;
But though my voice was good an' strong,
I couldn't steer it right.
When they was high, then I was low,
An' also contrawise;
An' I too fast, or they too slow,
To "mansions in the skies."
An' after every verse, you know
They play a little tune;
I didn't understand, and so
I started in too soon.
I pitched it pretty middlin' high,
I fetched a lusty tone,
But oh, alas! I found that I
Was singin' there alone!
They laughed a little, I am told;
But I had done my best;
And not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown—I could but look—
She sits right front of me;
She never was no singin'-book,
An' never went to be;
But then she al'ays tried to do
The best she could, she said;
She understood the time right through,
An' kep' it with her head;
But when she tried this mornin', oh,
I had to laugh, or cough!
It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,
It e'en a'most came off.
An' Deacon Tubbs—he all broke 'down,
As one might well suppose;
He took one look at Sister Brown,
And meekly scratched his nose.
He looked his hymn-book through and through,
And laid it on the seat,
And then a pensive sigh he drew,
And looked completely beat.
And when they took another bout,
He didn't even rise;
But drawed his red bandanner out,
An' wiped his weepin' eyes.
I've been a sister, good an' true,
For five-an'-thirty year;
I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;
But Death will stop my voice, I know,
For he is on my track;
And some day I to church will go,
And nevermore come back;
And when the folks gets up to sing—
Whene'er that time shall be—
I do not want no patent thing
A-squealin' over me!
Will Carteton.

LARRIE O'DEE