Part 47 (1/2)

Sir: A tailor in Denver advertises: ”If your clothes don't fit we make them.”

W. V. R.

Heard, by R. M., in a department store: Shoe-polish demonstrator: ”And if you haven't already ruined your shoes with other cleaners this will do the work.”

FAREWELL!

(_By Poeta._)

Comet, Comet, s.h.i.+ning bright In the s.p.a.ces of the night, Every hour swinging higher From the Sun of thy desire; Astral vagrant, stellar rover, Dipping under, dipping over Path of Venus, Earth, and Mars Till there's naught beyond but stars; Cutting, in thy lane elliptic, Thro' the plane of the ecliptic, Far beyond pale Neptune's track-- Good-by, Comet! Hurry back!

AN UNCOMMONLY HAPPY THOUGHT.

(_A. J. Balfour, Letter to Mary Gladstone, 1891._)

”It is unfortunate, considering that enthusiasm moves the world, that so few enthusiasts can be trusted to speak the truth.”

THE SECOND POST.

[The editor of the Winneconne, Wis., Local to his flock.]

Dear Subscriber: You probably know that the Local editor and his wife have been away from Winneconne most of the time during the last ten months. Every month we expected to get back again. The suspense was somewhat hard. During the meantime Mrs. Flanagan, each week, would worry and talk about the paper as much as ever. The doctor desired to have it off her mind. During the meantime she did not want the plant closed for even a short time. Now it has been decided to take a holiday vacation, during which time Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan will release themselves from all business cares and build up in health. No doubt, you will realize the delicate situation of the affair, and bear with us in the matter until the Local again resumes its regular publication dates, for surely both of us are very much attached to the paper, the town, and its people, and the surrounding country.

M. C. Flanagan.

THE DAY OF ”DON'TS.”

Thanksgiving was a holiday I welcomed when a boy, But now it is a solemn feast without a jot of joy.

It used to be a pleasure to attack the toothsome turkey, But now when I approach the bird I'm anything but perky.

A mult.i.tude of dismal ”Don'ts” impair my appet.i.te; A fear of what may happen me accompanies each bite.

There hovers round this holiday a heavy cloud of dread That never lifts till I am safe, with water-bag, in bed.

I used to drink a gla.s.s of wine, but that is bad, I'm told, So now I s.h.i.+p in water--just as much as I can hold.

To fail to fletcherize my food were fatal, without question; I never touch the stuffing, as it taxes the digestion.

When the lugubrious feast is done I hasten from my chair To open all the windows wide, and let in lots of air; And then I sit around an hour and chew a wad of gum Until the fullness disappears from my distended tum.

That pleasant, dozy feeling I compel myself to shake, For should I venture on a nap I'd never, never wake; And if I sneeze I take alarm and hasten out of doors, To start a circulation in my poison-clotted pores.