And cross them, will the answer be
A crop of nice sweet peas?
Then I would turn my hand to fruit,
If I had the time to spare.

If you cross a lemon with a peach,
Now would that make a pear?

If you take a bunch of nice sweet corn-
Your palate now I'll tickle-

And cross them with a cucumber,
Will you get a nice sweet pickle?
But, best of all, I'd like to cross
My pitiful amount

Of salary, with some magic wand,
And produce a bank account.

An Explanation

BY WALTER LEARNED.

Her lips were so near
That-what else could I do?
You'll be angry, I fear,
But her lips were so near-
Well, I can't make it clear,
Or explain it to you,
But her lips were so near
That-what else could I do?

Temporal Happiness

Seek not to be rich, but happy. The one lies in bags, the other in content, which wealth can never give. We are apt to call things by wrong names. We will have Prosperity to be Happiness, and Adversity to be Misery; though that is the school of wisdom, and oftentimes the way of eternal happiness. -William Penn.

The Train Misser*

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

At Union Depot.

'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin-
Ef I hain't missed that train agin'!
Chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring!
But blast and blister the dasted train!
How it does it I can't explain!
Git here thirty-five minutes before

The dern thing's due!-and, drat the thing!
It'll manage to git past-shore!

The more I travel around, the more
I got no sense!-To stand right here
And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore!—
Sell you a ticket's all they kerr !
Ticket Agents ort to all be
Prosecuted-and that's just what!-
How'd I know which train's for me?
And how'd I know which train was not?—
Goern and comin' and gone astray,
And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!

Ef I could jes' sneak round behind
Myself, where I could git full swing,
I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!
Till I jes' got jerked up and fined!
For here I stood, as a dern fool's apt
To, and let that train jes' chuff and choo
Right apast me-and mouth jes' gapped

Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!

[From "Afterwhiles." Copyrighted, 1887, by James Whitcomb Riley. Reprinted by permission of the publisher, the Bobbs-Merrill Company.]

When de Folks is Gone*

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

What dat scratchin' at de kitchin' do'?
Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo'!

Tell you, Mr. Niggah, des sho's yo' bo'n,

Hit's mighty lonesome waitin' when de folks is gone!

Blame my trap! how de wind do blow!

An' dis is des' de night foh de witches, sho'!
Dey's trouble gon' to waste when de ole slut whine,
An' you heah de cat aspittin' when de moon don't
shine!

Chune my fiddle, an' de bridge go “bang!"
An' I lef 'er right back whah she allus hang,
An' de tribble snap short an' de apern split
When dey no mortal man wah a-techin' hit.

Dah! Now, what! How de ol j'ice crake!
'Spec dis house, ef hit tell plain fac's,
'Ud talk about de ha'nts wid dey long tails on
What dasn't on'y come when de folks is gone!

What I tuk an' done ef a sho'-nuff ghos'
Pop right up by de ole bed-pos'?
What dat shinin' fru de front do' crack ?
God bless de Lo'd ! hit's de folks got back!

Take That Back

He kissed her on her rosy cheek,

It was a pleasing smack;

And quick she turned and frowned on him
With "Now, sir, take that back!"

*From "Afterwhiles." Copyright, 1887, by James Whitcomb Riley. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

He Understood

BY ANNA V. CULBERSON.

Robin rashly kissed my hand,
Therefore I gave command,
"Leave me, sir; or else refrain
Doing this bold deed again.

"Once for all, pray, understand,
You do wrong to kiss my hand."
Robin heeded my command—
Stayed, nor kissed again my hand,

Yet he doth not mope nor sigh;
What can be the reason why?
This I told him! "Understand,
You do wrong to kiss-my hand."

Nothing But Leaves

BY M. H. G.

He's devotion itself all the summer;

That she's caught him she fondly believes; But when comes the last day of the season, He simply says nothing-but leaves.

They've danced through each hop and cotillion,
No other his homage receives.

But chilled by the first frost of Autumn,
He coldly says nothing-but leaves.

When she adds up her gains and her losses,
Like a husbandman counting his sheaves,
She mentally puts a black mark to his name,
And says: "This year I've nothing-but leaves."

Cavalry Song

BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

Our good steeds sniff the evening air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman's fires are twinkling there;
He leaps to hear our sabers jingle!

Halt!

Each carbine sends its whizzing ball:
Now, cling, clang! forward all,
Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome;
Through level lightnings gallop nearer!
One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home;
The guidons that we hear are dearer.

Charge!

Cling! clang! forward all!

Heaven help those whose horses fall:
Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back,
And leave the foeman to his dirges.
Wheel!

The bugles sound the swift recall:
Cling! clang! backward all!
Home, and good-night!

Varia

There was an old man of Tarentum

Who gnashed his false teeth till he bent 'em; And when asked for the cost

Of what he had lost,

Said, "Really, can't tell, for I rent 'em!"

-Anonymous.