Volume III Part 25 (1/2)

”I will not Hurry Myself, for I Doubt Not the Market contains Plenty for all who come.”

She therefore Sauntered Forth at her Leisure, and on reaching the Market she found to her Dismay that the Choicest Cuts and the Finest Produce had All been Sold, and there remained for her only the Inferior Meats and Some Withered Vegetables.

The Other, who was One of the Hustling, Wide-awake Sort, said:

”I will Bestir myself Betimes and Hasten to Market that I may Take my Pick ere my Neighbors appear on the Scene.”

She did so, and when she Reached the Market she Discovered that the Fresh Produce had not yet Arrived, and she must Content herself with the Remnants of Yesterday's Stock.

MORALS:

This Fable teaches that The Early Bird Gets the Worm, and that There Are Always as Good Fish In the Sea as Ever were Caught.

IN PHILISTIA

BY BLISS CARMAN

Of all the places on the map, Some queer and others queerer, Arcadia is dear to me, Philistia is dearer.

There dwell the few who never knew The pangs of heavenly hunger As fresh and fair and fond and frail As when the world was younger.

If there is any sweeter sound Than bobolinks or thrushes, It is the _frou-frou_ of their silks-- The roll of their barouches.

I love them even when they're good, As well as when they're sinners-- When they are sad and worldly wise And when they are beginners.

(I say I do; of course the fact, For better or for worse, is, My unerratic life denies My too erotic verses.)

I dote upon their waywardness, Their foibles and their follies.

If there's a madder pate than Di's, Perhaps it may be Dolly's.

They have no ”problems” to discuss, No ”theories” to discover; They are not ”new”; and I--I am Their very grateful lover.

I care not if their minds confuse Alastor with Aladdin; And Cimabue is far less To them than Chimmie Fadden.

They never heard of William Blake, Nor saw a Botticelli; Yet one is, ”Yours till death, Louise,”

And one, ”Your loving Nelly.”

They never tease me for my views, Nor tax me with my grammar; Nor test me on the latest news, Until I have to stammer.

They never talk about their ”moods,”

They never know they have them; The world is good enough for them, And that is why I love them.

They never puzzle me with Greek, Nor drive me mad with Ibsen; Yet over forms as fair as Eve's They wear the gowns of Gibson.

THE DYING GAG