En den you puts yo' knife up, en you sorter licks de blade,

En never stop fer sayin' any grace;

But cat ontell you satisfy-roll over in de shade,

En sleep ontell de sun shine in yo' face!
Oh, melons!

Honey good ter see;

But we'en it comes ter sweetness,

De melon make fer me!

Frank Libby Stanton.

A VAGUE STORY

PERCHANCE it was her eyes of blue,

Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed,
Her figure in proportion true

To all the rules by artists framed;
Perhaps it was her mental worth

That made her lover love her so,
Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth-
I cannot tell-I do not know.

He may have had a rival, who

Did fiercely gage him to a duel,

And, being luckier of the two,

Defeated him with triumph cruel;
Then she may have proved false, and turned
To welcome to her arms his foe,

Left him despairing, conquered, spurned-
I cannot tell-I do not know.

So oft such woes will counteract
The thousand ecstacies of love,
That you may fix on base of fact
The story hinted at above;
But all on earth so doubtful is,

Man knows so little here below,
That, if you ask for proof of this,

I cannot tell-I do not know.

Walter Parke.

His Mother-in-Law

HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW

He stood on his head by the wild seashore,
And danced on his hands a jig;

In all his emotions, as never before,

A wildly hilarious grig.

And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
His mother-in-law had sailed

For a tropical country far away,

Where tigers and fever prevailed.

Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life
And even be happy yet,

Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,
And up to his collar in debt.

He had borne the old lady through thick and thin,
And she lectured him out of breath;

And now as he looked at the ship she was in
He howled for her violent death.

He watched as the good ship cut the sea,
And bumpishly up-and-downed,

And thought if already she qualmish might be,
He'd consider his happiness crowned.

He watched till beneath the horizon's edge
The ship was passing from view;

And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge
And pranced like a kangaroo.

He watched till the vessel became a speck
That was lost in the wandering sea;
And then, at the risk of breaking his neck,
Turned somersaults home to tea.

Walter Parke.

75

ON A DEAF HOUSEKEEPER

Or all life's plagues I recommend to no man
To hire as a domestic a deaf woman.

I've got one who my orders does not hear,
Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near.
Thirsty and hot, I asked her for a drink;
She bustled out, and brought me back some ink.
Eating a good rump-steak, I called for mustard;
Away she went, and whipped me up a custard.
I wanted with my chicken to have ham;
Blundering once more, she brought a pot of jam.
I wished in season for a cut of salmon;

And what she brought me was a huge fat gammon.
I can't my voice raise higher and still higher,
As if I were a herald or town-crier.
'T would better be if she were deaf outright;
But anyhow she quits my house this night.

Unknown.

HOMEOPATHIC SOUP

TAKE a robin's leg

(Mind, the drumstick merely);

Put it in a tub

Filled with water nearly;

Set it out of doors,

In a place that's shady;

Let it stand a week
(Three days if for a lady);
Drop a spoonful of it
In a five-pail kettle,
Which may be made of tin
Or any baser metal;

Fill the kettle up,
Set it on a boiling,
Strain the liquor well,
To prevent its oiling;

One atom add of salt,

For the thickening one rice kernel,

Some Little Bug

And use to light the fire

"The Homœopathic Journal."
Let the liquor boil

Half an hour, no longer,

(If 'tis for a man

Of course you'll make it stronger).

Should you now desire
That the soup be flavoury,

Stir it once around,
With a stalk of savoury.
When the broth is made,
Nothing can excell it:

Then three times a day
Let the patient smell it.
If he chance to die,
Say 'twas Nature did it:

If he chance to live,
Give the soup the credit.

Unknown.

SOME LITTLE BUG

IN these days of indigestion

It is oftentimes a question

As to what to eat and what to leave alone;

For each microbe and bacillus

Has a different way to kill us,

And in time they always claim us for their own.

There are germs of every kind

In any food that you can find

In the market or upon the bill of fare.

Drinking water's just as risky

As the so-called deadly whiskey,

And it's often a mistake to breathe the air.

Some little bug is going to find you some day,
Some little bug will creep behind you some day,
Then he'll send for his bug friends
And all your earthly trouble ends;

Some little bug is going to find you some day.

44

The inviting green cucumber

Gets most everybody's number,

While the green corn has a system of its own; Though a radish seems nutritious

Its behaviour is quite vicious,

And a doctor will be coming to your home.

Eating lobster cooked or plain

Is only flirting with ptomaine,

While an oyster sometimes has a lot to say, But the clams we cat in chowder

Make the angels chant the louder,

For they know that we'll be with them right away.

Take a slice of nice fried onion

And you're fit for Dr. Munyon,

Apple dumplings kill you quicker than a train. Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit"

And a grave you'll soon inhabit

Ah, to cat at all is such a foolish game.

Eating huckleberry pie

Is a pleasing way to die,

While sauerkraut brings on softening of the brain. When you eat banana fritters

Every undertaker titters,

And the casket makers nearly go insane.

Some little bug is going to find you some day,

Some little bug will creep behind you some day,
With a nervous little quiver

He'll give cirrhosis of the liver;

Some little bug is going to find you some day.

When cold storage vaults I visit

I can only say what is it

Makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff?

Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandy

If a stomach pump is handy

And your doctor can be found quite soon enough.

Eat a plate of fine pigs' knuckles

And the headstone cutter chuckles,