Onless a war should interfere, Crops won't bring half a price this year; "Good for the poor!" exclaimed the deacon. "Give thanks? And Jane and baby sick? I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick Ain't runnin' things!" The deacon said, "Simon! yer people might be dead!” "Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again, "Jest look at what a fix we're in! The country's rushin' to the dogs At race horse speed!" said Simon Soggs, We'll hev to build, fer big and small, All round the crooked whisky still Is runnin' like the Devil's mill; Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel, To think how office-holders steal! The taxes paid by you and me Is four times bigger'n they should be; I'll bet a continental cent, Elect another President! Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know?" The deacon answered, sad and low, ASSISTING A POETESS. "If you please, sir," said the young lady, timidly, as the exchange editor handed her a chair, “I have composed a few verses, or partially composed them, and I thought you might help me finish them and then print them. Ma says they are real nice as far as they go, and pa takes your paper every day. She was a handsome creature, with beautiful blue eyes, and a crowning glory as yellow as golden-rods. There was an expectant look on her face, a hopefulness that appealed to the holiest emotions, and the exchange editor made up his mind not to crush the longing of that pure heart if he never struck another lick. "May I show you the poetry?" continued the ripe, red mouth. "You will see that I couldn't get the last lines of the verses and if you would please be so kind as to help me Help her! Though he had never even read a line of poetry, the exchange editor felt the spirit of the divine. art flood his soul as he yielded to the bewildering music. Help her! Well he should smile. "The first verse runs like this," she went on, taking courage from his eyes; "How softly sweet the autumn air, The dying woodland fills, And nature turns from restful care-"" You "To anti-bilious pills," added the exchange editor, with a jerk. "Just the thing. It rhymes and it's so. take anybody now. Half the people you meet are—” "I suppose you know best," interrupted the young girl. I hadn't thought of it in that way, but you have a better idea of such things. Now the second verse is more like this: "The dove-eyed kine upon the moor Look tender, meek, and sad; While from the valley comes the roar-"" "Of the matchless liver-pad!" roared the exchange editor. "There you get it. as to match with the first. That finishes the second so It combines the fashions with poetry, and carries the idea right home to the fireside. If I only had your ability in starting a verse, with my genius in winding it up, I'd quit the shears and open in the poetry business to-morrow." "Think so?" asked the fair young lady. "It don't strike me as keeping up the theme." "You don't want to. You want to break the theme here and there. The reader likes it better. Oh, yes! Where you keep up the theme it gets monotonous." "Perhaps that's so," rejoined the beauty, brightening up. "I didn't think of that. Now I'll read the third verse: "How sadly droops the dying day, As night springs from the glen, And moaning twilight seems to say-" "The old man's drunk again," wouldn't do, would it?" asked the exchange editor. "Somebody else wrote that, and we might be accused of plagiarism. We must have this thing original. Suppose we say-now just suppose we say, Why did I spout my Ben?" "Is that new?" inquired the sweet, rosy lips. At least I never heard it before. I don't know what it means." "New? 'Deed its new. Ben is the name for overcoat, 'Why did I spout my Ben?' topper? That's just what and spout means to hock. means why did I shove my twilight would think of first, you know. Oh, don't be afraid, that's just immense !" "Well, I'll leave it to you," said the glorious girl, with a smile that pinned the exchange editor's heart to his 66 spine. This is the fourth verse: 66. The merry milkmaid's somber song As silently she trips along-' "With holes in both her socks,-by Jove!" cried the delighted exchange editor. "You see-" "Oh, no, no!" remonstrated the blushing maiden. "Not that." "Certainly," protested the exchange editor warming up. "Nine to four she's got 'em; and you get fidelity to fact with a wealth of poetical expression. The worst of poetry generally is, you can't state things as they are. It ain't like prose. But here we've busted all the established notions, and put up an actual existence with the vail of genuine poetry over it. I think that's the best idea we've struck yet." "I don't seem to look at it the way you do, but of course you are the best judge. Pa thought I ought to say: As silently she trips along In autumn's yellow tracks.' 66 6 Wouldn't that do?" "Do! Just look at it. Does tracks rhyme with rocks? Not in this paper it don't. Besides when you say 'tracks' and 'rocks,' you give the expression of some fellow heaving things at another fellow who's scratching for safety. 'Socks,' on the other hand, rhymes with the 'rocks' and beautifies them, while it touches up the milkmaid, and by describing her condition shows her to be a child of the very nature you are showing up." "I think you are right," said the sweet angel. "I'll tell pa where he was wrong. This is the way the fifth Verse runs: 666 'And close behind, the farmer's boy Trills forth his simple tunes; And walks beside the maiden coy—'" "With ragged pantaloons! Done it myself; know just exactly how it is. Why, bless your heart, you Snip, snip, snip. Paste, paste, paste. But it is with a saddened heart that he snips and pastes among his exchanges now. The beautiful vision that for a moment dawned upon him has left but the recollection in his heart of one sunbeam in his life, quenched by the shower of tears with which she denounced him as a "brute," and went out from him forever. THE LITTLE SHOES DID IT. Some months ago-I need not mention where- Until one near spoke to him thus: "Look, dear father,' said the mother 'Look, we've got new shoes for darling! |