Part 10 (2/2)

Were rather dismal scores, And they wreathed in a somewhat somber hue These cla.s.sic western sh.o.r.es; We shuddered and winced at the cruel sport And our heads were bowed in shame 'Till Somewhere sent us the glad report That the champions won the game!

Our Baby says it'll be all right For the champions by and by, And the twin emotions of Hope and Fright Gleam in his cod fish eye; And Spalding says (in his modest way) That we'll get there all the same; So let us holler, ”Hooray, hooray,”

When the champions win the game.

CHICAGO NEWSPAPER LIFE.

It pleases us to observe that the shocking habit of hurling opprobrious epithets at each other has been abandoned by the venerable editor of the Journal and the venerable editor of the Tribune. At this moment we are reminded of the inspired lines of the eminent but now, alas! neglected Watts:

”Birds in their nests agree, And 'tis a shocking sight When folks, who should harmonious be, Fall out and chide and fight.

”The tones of Andy and of Joe Should join in friendly games-- Not be debased to vice so low As that of calling names.

”Bad names and naughty names require To be chastized at school, But he's in danger of h.e.l.l-fire Who talks of 'crank' and 'fool.'

”Oh 'tis a dreadful thing to see The old folks smite and jaw, But pleasant it is to agree On the election law.

”Let Joe and Andy leave their wrongs For sinners to contest; So shall they some time swell the songs Of Israel's ransomed blest.”

THE MIGHTY WEST.

Oh, where abides the fond kazoo, The barrel-organ fair, And where is heard the tra-la-loo Of fish horns on the air?

And where are found the fife and drum Discoursed with goodliest zest?

And where do fiddles liveliest hum?

The west--the mighty west!

Sonatas, fugues, and all o' that Are rightly judged effete, While largos written in B-flat Are clearly out of date; Some like the cold pianny-forty, But whistling suits us best-- And op'ry, if it isn't naughty, Will not catch on out west.

From skinning hogs or canning beef Or diving into stocks, Could we expect to find relief In Haydns or in Bachs?

Ah, no; from pork and wheat and lard We turn aside with zest To sing some opus of some bard Whose home is in the west.

So get ye gone, ye weakling crew!

Your tunes are stale and flat, And cannot hold a candle to The works of Silas Pratt!

His opuses are in demand And are the final test By which all others fall or stand In this the mighty west!

APRIL.

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