  HAVE you ever sighed for the good old days before the Great Drought? I have—many, many times. Oh! Gentle Readers, how my mouth has filled with juicy cotton at the thought of a nice, large, cooling glass of lager. You know, the kind we got before the war—the amber fluid that would almost make you side-slip into a tail spin and flop on your fusilage. In the September issue, I want you to read “Sherry,” and then eat an egg so as to complete the illusion. Oh, ’tis so. Don’t I know? You’re in for it, once you begin it. As with wine, so with love, you’d better go slow, For the devil himself is in it! She’s a “darby” poem for the old-fashioned Bohemian.—The Editor. The Worldly Way By Monroe H. Rosenfeld. “Come back, my child,” said the father fond To his boy who had gone astray Out in the bitter world of sin— Out in the sorrowed way; “Thou hast erred, my child, yet what of that? And Frailty’s name is mine, Thy path of sin is naught to me, For repentance is divine!” And so it chanced that the lad returned One night, when the low’ring day Of Life had cast its dark’ning gloom And lured him from his way; And wine and song and kindly hands, Like the dream of the prodigal son, Were lent in humble, sweet embrace To welcome the erring one! –––––––– A maiden fair in tattered gown, Aweary and sad at heart, Passed out in the rabble of the street With penance for a part. Hers was the fate of Passion’s love, And she a thing of scorn; “Thou hast erred and sinned,” cried the bitter world, “’Twere better to be unborn!” “Thou art not my child!” the father said, As he closed the mansion door— “Passion and sin go hand in hand, Seek thou another shore!” And the girl went forth forever, aye, A penitent child of shame— One of the millions wandering on For woe and Death to claim. –––––––– Ah! this was many years ago, When life was a youthful dream; And yester eve I saw two graves In a churchyard near a stream; The glittering waters rippled soft Their cadence for a song Of the sinner and sinned who buried lay Apart from the madding throng. The same sweet carol of the birds Overhead, that sang their strain; The same sweet zephyrs lingering by Made dirges for the twain. One forgiven! The other spurned! Both in the depths of clay. Yet each again to rise, despite The cross of the worldly way! –––––––– “Here’s where I prove an artist Without a brush,” he cried, As he drew a lovely maiden Up closer to his side. Hell Sometimes we say— It’s colde’r’n Hell; Sometimes we say— It’s hotter’n Hell, And when it rains, ’Tis Hell we cry; It’s also Hell When it is dry. Married life’s Hell— So they say; You get home late— There’s Hell to pay; I suppose it is Hell If babe cries all night, And doctor bills— They’re Hell all right. But still there’s “Hell, yes”; “Hell, no,” And “Oh, Hell,” too; “The Hell you don’t” And “The Hell you do.” Now, how in the Hell Can anyone tell, What in the Hell We mean by Hell. —By Numatic, Akron, O. Learning. I used to be old-fashioned, I never came to town, But now, by gosh, I’m lickity-split, I love the girls around. I hug ’em, I kiss ’em, I’m a regular up to date. By gollys I’m getting wild, But you city ginks just wait. —Bill Bancroft. Maud Muller Maud Muller, on nice summer day, Raked in meadows sveet vith hay. Her eyes ban sharp lak gude sharp knife; She ban nice girl, ay bet yure life. Before she ban dar wery long, She start to senging little song. The Yudge come riding down big hill In nice red yumping ottomobill. Maude say, “Hello, Yudge,—how ban yu?” The Yudge say, “Maudie, how y’ du?” He say: “Skol yu tak little ride? Ef yu skol lak to, yump inside.” So Maude and Yudge ride ’bout sax miles, And Yudge skol bask in Maude’s sveet smiles. The Yudge say, “Skol yu be my pal?” Den ottomobill bust all to hal. Den Maude ban valking ’bout half vay Back to meadows sveet vith hay. “Ay luv yu still, dear,” said the Yudge; But Maude she only say, “O fudge!” Of all sad vords dat men skol talk, The saddest ban, “Valk, yu sucker, valk!” Girls! Read This One A girl may laugh, a girl may sing; A girl may knit and crochet, But she can’t scratch a match On the seat of her pants, Because she’s not built that way. Girls With girls you should not get too free, You’ll find my words are true; Tell her she is a bird, and she Will want to fly with you. —Cincinnati Enquirer. With girls you should not get too free, You’ll find my words are right; Tell her she is a bear, and she Will want to hug you tight. —Hastings (Neb.) Tribune. With girls you should not get too free, And this thought don’t forget; Tell her she is a deer, and see Her run you dear in debt. —New York World. With girls you should not get too free, Just that in mind please bear; Tell her she is a peach, and she Will grab you for a pair. —St. Paul Pioneer Press. With girls you should not get too free, Be careful, don’t get rash; Tell her she is a lamb and she Will fleece you of your cash. In a Friendly Sort o’ Way When a man ain’t got a cent, and he’s feeling kind o’ blue, An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy, an’ won’t let the sunshine through, It’s a great thing, O, my brethren, for a feller just to lay His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way! It makes a man feel curious; it makes the teardrops start, An’ you sort o’ feel a flutter in the region of the heart: You can look up and meet his eyes: you don’t know what to say When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way. Oh, the world’s a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, With its care and bitter crosses, but a good worl’ after all; An’ a good God must have made it—leastways, that is what I say, When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way. —James Whitcomb Riley. The Troop Train Higgledy, piggledy, we tumble in, Rats in a cage, fish in a tin, In evil dreams I travel again In a clanking, clattering French troop train, “Chevaux” eight, “Homme’s” two score Is the legend inscribed on the box-car door. All things considered, I cannot but feel That the horses get the best of the deal. We stop with a jerk and start with a wrench, And the driver gets cursed in both English and French. We start, we stop, we start once more And shunt back to where we were before; When it’s time to sleep down you flop With two men beneath you and three on top. Higgledy, piggledy, here we lie, Lice in a shirt, pigs in a sty. H. J. Smith. When I’m Among a Blaze of Lights When I’m among a blaze of lights, With tawdry music and cigars And women dawdling through delights, And officers at cocktail bars,— Sometimes I think of garden night And elm trees nodding at the stars. I dream of a small firelit room With yellow candles burning straight, And glowing pictures in the gloom, And kindly books that hold me late. Of things like these I love to think When I can never be alone: Then some one says, “Another drink?” And turns my living heart to stone. —Sassoon. When the whole blamed world Seems gone to pot And business on the bum, A two-cent grin and a lifted chin Helps some, my boy, helps some. The Modern Version “Smile, and the world smiles with you; Weep, and you weep alone.” —Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Spend, and the world spends with you; Save, and you save alone. Tho’ fast be the race you’ve got to keep pace, Till you’ve spent every nickel you own. Jazz, and the bunch jazz with you; Dance, and you’re by yourself; The mob thinks it’s “jake” to shimmy and shake, For the “old-fashioned stuff’s” on the shelf. Have a “case,” and your friends will adore you; Have a thirst, and they all pass you by; For men want full measure of all your treasure, But never come ’round when you’re dry. V. V. M. The Longing Search I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. Upon a golden day thou came’st to me, And beautyless were other maidens then, Nor was it night nor day when near to thee, But carefree floating through the yielding air. Oft in the crowd, I’ve seen thee hurry on, With wistful smile and look so sadly fair, But when the head was turned, ’twas not the one. And my sad heart fed on its grief again. So runs my song. The sea, in other days, Broke on the shores of time encircled men And maids, whose hearts, like ours, sang such sad lays. Are those souls happy there, who here found pain? I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. —Norman McLeod. Ananias Outdone I’d rather drink water than beer; I’d rather drink milk than champagne, A “gingerale high” always makes me feel queer, A “claret cup” gives me a pain; I’m really a buttermilk fan, For whisky I don’t care a slam; Soft drinks are my joy, I’m so happy! Oh, Boy!! What a wonderful liar I am. —By Betty. So Touching By John Bowen, Jr., S. T. C. At first she touches up her hair To see if it’s in place, And then with manner debonair, She touches up her face; A touch of curls behind her ear, A touch of cuffs and collars And then she’s off to hubby dear To touch him for ten dollars.
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