Volume VIII Part 33 (1/2)

Said Gra.s.s, ”What is that noise That startles and destroys Our blessed summer brooding when we're tired?”

”That's folk a-praising G.o.d,”

Said the tough old cynic Clod; ”They do it every Sunday, They'll be all right on Monday; It's just a little habit they've acquired.”

And laughter spread among the little leaves.

”THE DAY IS DONE”

BY PHOEBE CARY

The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker, Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That I can not well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,-- A good and regular meal-- That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn't give a farthing For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonis.h.i.+ng power To aid and reinforce, And come like the ”finally, brethren,”

That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook.

And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.

MR. DOOLEY ON GOLF

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

”An' what's this game iv goluf like, I dinnaw?” said Mr. Hennessy, lighting his pipe with much unnecessary noise. ”Ye're a good deal iv a spoort, Jawnny: did ye iver thry it?”

”No,” said Mr. McKenna. ”I used to roll a hoop onct upon a time, but I'm out of condition now.”

”It ain't like base-ball,” said Mr. Hennessy, ”an' it ain't like s.h.i.+nny, an' it ain't like lawn-teenis, an' it ain't like forty-fives, an' it ain't”--

”Like canvas-back duck or anny other game ye know,” said Mr. Dooley.

”Thin what is it like?” said Mr. Hennessy. ”I see be th' pa-aper that Hobart What-d'ye-call-him is wan iv th' best at it. Th' other day he made a scoor iv wan hundherd an' sixty-eight, but whether 'twas miles or st.i.tches I cudden't make out fr'm th' raypoorts.”

”'Tis little ye know,” said Mr. Dooley. ”Th' game iv goluf is as old as th' hills. Me father had goluf links all over his place, an', whin I was a kid, 'twas wan iv th' princ.i.p.al spoorts iv me life, afther I'd dug the turf f'r th' avenin', to go out and putt”--

”Poot, ye mean,” said Mr. Hennessy. ”They'se no such wurrud in th'