But never an Indian—not a bit;
Not even the top of a feathered head,
But only a wall and the lean-to shed.
R. C. L.
IN EXTREMIS.
A Nut lay dying. He was twenty-five. He had had a good time—too good—and the end was near.
There was no hope, but alleviation was possible. "Is there anything," he was asked, "that you would like?"
He was plucky and prepared for the worst.
"Yes," he said, "I'd like to know what I've spent since I was twenty. Could that be arranged?"