Volume II Part 4 (1/2)

To even ast What wuz up, as he went past!

Weather most outrageous hot!-- Fairly hear it sizz Roun' Dock an' Mike--till Dock he shot, An' Mike he slacked that grip o' his An' fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz 'Bout half up, a-spittin' red, An' shuck his head-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

An' Dock he says, A-whisperin'-like,-- ”It hain't no use A-tryin'!--Mike He's jes' ripped my daylights loose!-- Git that blame-don fiddler to Let up, an' come out here--You Got some burryin' to do,-- Mike makes _one_, an' I expects In ten seconds I'll make _two_!”

And he drapped back, where he riz, 'Crost Mike's body, black and blue, Like a great big letter X!-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!

SHE TALKED

BY SAM WALTER FOSS

She talked of Cosmos and of Cause, And wove green elephants in gauze, And while she frescoed earthen jugs, Her tongue would never pause: On sages wise and esoteric, And bards from Wendell Holmes to Herrick: Thro' time's proud Pantheon she walked, And talked and talked and talked and talked!

And while she talked she would crochet, And make all kinds of macrame, Or paint green bobolinks upon Her mother's earthen tray; She'd decorate a smelling bottle While she conversed on Aristotle; While fame's proud favorites round her flocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!

She talked and made embroidered rugs, She talked and painted 'la.s.ses jugs, And worked five sea-green turtle doves On papa's shaving mugs; With Emerson or Epictetus, Plato or Kant, she used to greet us: She talked until we all were shocked, And talked and talked and talked and talked!

She had a lover, and he told The story that is never old, While she her father's bootjack worked A lovely green and gold.

She switched off on Theocritus, And talked about Democritus; And his most ardent pa.s.sion balked, And talked and talked and talked and talked.

He begged her to become his own; She talked of ether and ozone, And painted yellow poodles on Her brother's razor hone; Then talked of Noah and Neb'chadnezzar, And Timon and Tiglath-pileser-- While he at her heart portals knocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!

He bent in love's tempestuous gale, She talked of strata and of shale, And worked magenta poppies on Her mother's water pail; And while he talked of pa.s.sion's power, She amplified on Schopenhauer-- A pistol flashed: he's dead! Unshocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!

GRANDMA KEELER GETS GRANDPA READY FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL

BY SARAH P. McLEAN GREENE

Sunday morning nothing arose in Wallencamp save the sun.

At least, that celestial orb had long forgotten all the roseate flaming of his youth, in an honest, straightforward march through the heavens, ere the first signs of smoke came curling lazily up from the Wallencamp chimneys.

I had retired at night, very weary, with the delicious consciousness that it wouldn't make any difference when I woke up the next morning, or whether, indeed, I woke at all. So I opened my eyes leisurely and lay half-dreaming, half-meditating on a variety of things.

I deciphered a few of the texts on the scriptural patchwork quilt which covered my couch. There were--”Let not your heart be troubled,”

”Remember Lot's wife,” and ”Philander Keeler,” traced in inky hieroglyphics, all in close conjunction.

Finally I reached out for my watch, and, having ascertained the time of day, I got up and proceeded to dress hastily enough, wondering to hear no signs of life in the house.

I went noiselessly down the stairs. All was silent below, except for the peaceful snoring of Mrs. Philander and the little Keelers, which was responded to from some remote western corner of the Ark by the triumphant snores of Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.

I attempted to kindle a fire in the stove, but it sizzled a little while, spitefully, as much as to say, ”What, Sunday morning? Not I!” and went out. So I concluded to put on some wraps and go out and warm myself in the sun.

I climbed the long hill back of the Ark, descended, and walked along the bank of the river. It was a beautiful morning. The air was--everything that could be desired in the way of air, but I felt a desperate need of something more substantial.

Standing alone with nature, on the bank of the lovely river, I thought, with tears in my eyes, of the delicious breakfast already recuperating the exhausted energies of my far-away home friends.

When I got back to the house, Mrs. Philander, in simple and unaffected attire, was bustling busily about the stove.