HER "ANGEL" FATHER[3]
By Elliott Flower
"My Papa is an angel now,"
The little maiden said.
We noted her untroubled brow,
Her gayly nodding head,
And then, of course, we wondered how
She could have been misled.
We felt that she was wrong, and yet
We spoke in accents low,
For life with perils is beset,
And friends oft quickly go.
But she was right; he'd gone in debt
To "back" a burlesque show.
ESPECIALLY MEN
By George Randolph Chester
The tantalizing stream on the other side of the hedge seemed, to the hot and tired young man, to lead the way straight into the heart of Paradise itself. Six weary miles of white highway, wavering with heat and misty with hovering dust clouds, still lay between himself and the railroad that would whisk him away to the city. Behind him, conquered at fatiguing cost, were six more miles, stretching back to the village where not even a team could be hired on Sunday. Rather than spend the day in that dismal abode of Puritanism he had fled on foot, his business done, and this little creek, mocking, alluring, irresistible, was the only cheerful thing on which his eyes had rested in that whole stifling journey.
Even this had a drawback. He glanced up again, with a puzzled frown, at the queer sign glaring down at him from the hedge. It was the third one of the sort in the past quarter of a mile: