ODDS AND ENDS. 



WHERE THEY KEEP HOGS PENNED. 



He climbed into the trolley car and sat 

 down at the outer end of an empty seat. 

 A few blocks farther on a stout woman 

 with a basket full of stuff tried to get on. 

 He helped her put the basket under the 

 seat, and sat along to the middle, letting 

 her have the end place. 



Passengers on the other seats bent curi- 

 ous glances upon him. 



At the next stop a young woman with a 

 baby wanted to get in. The other seats 

 were full. At the risk of life, limb and 

 baby, she swung herself up the step by one 

 hand, squeezed past the market-woman's 

 portly form, knocking off the hats from 

 the row of people in the seat ahead, and 

 was about to worm her way past the first 

 named passenger, when he surprised her 

 by sliding along. She gave him a mis- 

 trustful "Thank you." 



"What was wrong with me back there, 

 to make everybody stare and whisper so?" 



Th# conductor was a mannerly man. 



"Oh, nuthin' much," he said. "But I 

 guess you're from the country all right, 

 ain't you?" 



"Yes," said the stranger; "from away 

 back in the country; never rode on cars 

 like these before." 



'I thought not," said the conductor. 

 Never mind, you'll know better another 

 time. I'll just give you a pointer. When 

 you get into an open car, always sit at the 

 first end. Keep the outside seat. It isn't 

 quite so comfortable as it is to move along, 

 but it's town manners. Make everybody 

 else climb over you big and little, old 

 women and babies everybody. They're 

 used to it. But never on any account 



move along to accommodate anybody in a 

 street-car." 



"I think." said the stranger softly as he 

 hastened off to his train, "that I'll stay on 

 the old farm. We have plenty of hogs 

 there, but we keep 'em penned and don't 

 have to associate with them." And the 

 conductor scratched his head and grinned. 

 Northwest Magazine. 



THE PLACE I ONCE CALLED HOME. 



As the low and lipgering shadows steal 

 softly to the night. 



I tread with silent footsteps toward a wel- 

 come parlor light; 



A light that seems far brighter than the 

 stars in heaven's dome, 



The light that lights the parlor of the 

 place I onoe called home. 



I long to swing the portal that's been 

 closed to me for years; 



Lo, the window's dim and frosty; no, no, it 

 "Ms my tears! 



For I see, in loving silence, the family sit- 

 ting there, 



And mother knitting absently beside an 

 empty chair. 



In a gentle retrospection. I chase the tears 



away. 

 And lure to fading memory that sunny 



summer day 

 When I started out, light-hearted, with 



blessings and advice, 

 To those distant fields of fortune, with fate 



to cast the dice. 

 I remember I was picturing myself, as off 



I went, 

 Well that somehow I was destined to be 



the president. 



