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Young Briggs has received his first medal for the effort of his life, a 36 x 24, "In the Meadow." His rich uncle has come to consider buying it. “Wall, now, I guess we can make a dicker on that picter, providin' you kin fat up them cows and turn 'em sideways. Then take them trees out and put a couple of ranche buildin's in place of 'em, and with the name of our ranche in big red letters across the sky, she'll be a bully ad."

Aphorisms from the Quarter.

When some folks start out preachin', 'tis sort o' like playin' a hymn on de banjer.

De water-milion vine need a taller fence dan de rose-bush.

De man in de moon don't git much 'tention on 'lection day.

De runnin' vine in de grass kin fling you harder 'n de stump in de open road.

MULE keeps his 'ligion in his front en'.
RACCOON couldn't take his tracks off wid him.

De sto’-keeper's long pra'rs ain't no sign of a long yard-stick.

When de pea-vine git too proud to lean on a stick, 'tain't much service in de garden.

ONE rascal talkin' 'bout ’nuther one is like a deef man thumpin' a water-milion.

"Tain't fa'r to medjer de dep' ob a snow by de drifts in de fence-corner.

CLAPPER in de cow-bell shine in de dark.
DE apple in de rabbit-trap is rank pisen.

J. A. Macon,

Ballade of the Romantic Poet.

An Old-fashioned Girl.

Ah, Poet, you are out of date !

You “sing" and live in “faery-land";
You warble love; a laureled pate

Is all the profit you'd command :
But vain! - a reader's vex’d, unmanned

At cantos all of “lute” and “lance”:None heed to-day, though perfect-planned,

The rippled rhyme of old Romance. These analyze for hint of fate:

The Age, the Life on every hand;
Make ditties out of real estate

And verse on geologic sand.
What though of Roncesvalles' band

One blew a ballad over France ? —
This age progresses:- dead! who scanned

The rippled rhyme of old Romance. Leave Roland at the Tower gate ;

Write odes to Autumn fruitage - canned; With Locomotive sonnets sate

The heavy Spring and Fall demand.” Ah, Poet, once were ladies bland,

And woods enringed with Satyr dance We learn too much to understand

The rippled rhyme of old Romance.

OLD-FASHIONED ? Yes, I must confess
The antique pattern of her dress,
The ancient frills and surbelows,
The faded ribbons and the bows.
Why she should show those shrunken charms,
That wrinkled neck, those tawny arms,
I cannot guess; her russet gown
Round her spare form hangs loosely down;
Her voice is thin and cracked; her eye
And smile have lost their witchery.
By those faint jests, that flagging wit,

By each attenuated curl,
She surely is, I must admit,

An odd, old-fashioned girl.

'Tis long, long since she had a beau,
And now with those who sit a-row
Along the wall she takes her place,
With something of the old-time grace.
She yearns to join the mazy waltz,
And slyly sniffs her smelling-salts.
Ah, many an angel in disguise
May walk before our human eyes !
Where'er the fever-smitten lie
In grimy haunts of poverty,
Along the dark and squalid street,

'Mid drunken jests of boor and churl, She goes with swift and pitying feet,

This same old-fashioned girl.


James B. K'enyon.

But hearken ! though the time be fanned

With torrid airs of change and chance; Some love the shade, the magic-wand,

The rippled rhyme of old Romance.

The Missing Glove.

Harrison S. Morris.


I WROTE some lines, from end to end

In praise of dearest May.
I showed them to a critic friend,

To see what he would say.

“ They're crude," said he, “and so are you."

(He was a grouty fellow!) • Just let them lie a year or two, To ripen and grow


“Go over them from time to time,

And polish bit by bit; Perfect the meter and the rhyme,

And sharpen up the wit:

CLARINDA's ball is almost o'er;
Her long gloves hang upon her arm;
Perchance her shapely hands are warm
While still she lingers at the door,
Speaking to one whose dark eye burns
Too deep, I fear, into her soul.
(I pray she keep her fancy whole.)
The moments fly; at last she turns,
And soon among her parting guests
" I've lost my glove,” she starting cries:
To find it first each gallant vies.
The maiden, blushing, now requests
The search be stopped—“'Tis no account;
'Twill soon be found!” They take their leave.
Clarinda is not one to grieve
O'er ills past help; she turns to mount
The stair and gains at last her room.
Ah! how a maiden's fancy flies !
She has, I fear, some sweet surmise
About her glove, for through the gloom,
Gazing where glowing embers die
Upon the hearth, she faintly smiles.
See! dreaming, she undoes the wiles
Of her silk draperies, and they lie

“In half a year, but for the theme,

And for the lady's name, They'll be so changed you'll hardly dream

The lines could be the same."


I let them lie, I worked them o'er,

Changed epithet and rhyme. I hardly knew them any more,

They'd mellowed so by time. “ Black eyes" had mellowed into “ blue,"

Fallen at her feet; still gazing down, She lets her loosed hair to her knee Slide heavily; then stoops to see What lies entangled in her gown.


Ah! luckless glove, that that quick fire Should prove at last thy funeral pyre!

Winifred Howells.

And “ringlets" into “strands “One dimple,” ripened into “ two “Small," grown to "

shapely” hands. And what was once

nes retroussé Was now a "


nose; In fact, the very name of “May”

Had mellowed into “Rose."

Esther B. Tiffany.


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