CATCH on to the girl with a dog on a string—a dog that was bred for the eye of a king—and she a pathetic figure to see, is proud that the mut has a pedigree. She studied eugenics for many a year, and lectured on institutions queer, but she was poor, and she feared to get old, so she sold herself for a pot of gold.

Ain’t that life?

She married a guy whose toes turn in, when he opens his mouth he has no chin, no lobes to his ears and he stutters some, and chews on opium as if ’twas gum. But she says she is proud to be that man’s wife, and calls him her dearest—

Say! Ain’t that life?

On a little farther a chap you’ll see, who is just as straight as a poplar tree; his chin is normal, his forehead is high; see, his face turns red as he passes her by, for down in his heart there’s a tiny spot, where her image will ever lie unforgot, and a restless longing has he for her. If the neighborhood knew it he’d be called a cur.

Ain’t that life?

As they pass each other they never speak. He looks indifferent, while she looks meek. And they drop their eyes when they chance to meet, and look at each other from some retreat. And she pretends that she doesn’t care, though in her face you can see despair. Her heart beats high; it’s an awful sin, but she’d like a son the image of him.

Ain’t that life?

In her home there’s a bundle of bone and skin; it has its father’s ears and chin, and the neighbors say, with voices glad, “Isn’t he cute? He looks like his dad!” But on her heart there’s an awful load, for she sees that her baby’s legs are bowed. She sees in his eyes a peculiar light, that keeps her awake in the dead of night. And she kneels on her knees and she breathes a prayer, for she knows that old Nature has gotten square.

That’s life!