Volume VII Part 14 (1/2)
den dey come back an' tell Mistah Tarr'pin dat dey reckon dey done fix Mistah Tukkey dis time.
”'W'at you done wid him?' sezee.
”'We ain' ketch 'im,' dey ses, 'we lef' dat fer you, dat ain' ow'
bizness, but we done fix him up so't you kin do de ketchin' yo'se'f.'
”'W'at has you done to him, den?' sezee.
”'Son', dey ses, 'we done putt a lot er li'l bones in his laigs, an' dat gwine slow him up might'ly, an' we 'pends on you ter do de res', 'kase we knows dat you is a gre't chieft.'
”Den Tarr'pin amble long 'bout his bizness an' neener stop ner res'
ontwel he met up wid Tukkey onct mo'. He ax fer his by'ud an' wattles ag'in, but Tukkey jes' turnt an' stept out f'um dat, Tarr'pin atter him.
But seem lak de cunjerers thought Mistah Tarr'pin wuz faster'n w'at he wuz, er dat Mistah Tukkey 'z slower'n w'at _he_ wuz, 'kase Tarr'pin ain'
nuver ketch up wid him yit, an' w'ats mo', de tarr'pins is still doin'
widout by'uds an' wattles an' de gobblers is still wearin' 'em an'
swellin' roun' showin' off ter de gals, steppin' ez high ez ef dem li'l bones w'at de cunjerers putt dar wan't still in der laigs, an' struttin'
lak dey wuz sayin' ter ev'y pusson dey meets:
_'Cle'r outen de way fer ol' Dan Tucker, You'se too late ter git yo' supper.'”_
THE CRITIC
BY WILLIAM J. LAMPTON
Behold The Critic, bold and cold, Who sits in judgment on The twilight and the dawn Of literature, And, eminently sure, Informs his age What printed page Is destined to be great.
His word is Fate, And what he writes Is greater far Than all the books He writes of are.
His pen Is dipped in boom Or doom; And when He says one book is rot, And that another's not, That ends it. He Is pure infallibility, And any book he judges must Be blessed or cussed By all mankind, Except the blind Who will not see The master's modest mastery.
His fiat stands Against the uplifted hands Of thousands who protest And buy the books That they like best; But what of that?
He knows where he is at, And they don't. And why Shouldn't he be high Above them as the clouds Are high above the brooks, For G.o.d, He made the Critic, And man, he makes the books.
See?
Gee whiz, What a puissant potentate the Critic is.
THE a.s.sOCIATED WIDOWS
BY KATHARINE M. ROOF
The confirmed bachelor sat apart, fairly submerged by a sea of Sunday papers; yet a peripheral consciousness of the ladies' presence was revealed in his embryonic smile.
He folded over a voluminous sheet containing an account of the latest murder, and glanced at a half-page picture, labeled, ”The Scene of the Crime.”
”Was there ever yet a woman that could keep a secret,” he demanded, apparently of the newspaper. ”Now, if this poor fellow had only kept his little plans to himself--but, of course, he had to go and tell some woman.”