272 



RECREATION. 



th' ducks wuz a gittin' tender an' Pa took 

 'em outen th' pot an' put 'em in th' bakin- 

 skillet on their backs, with a little uv th' 

 pot broth, an' laid a little slash uv fat 

 meat on each one's breast, an' put on th' 

 kiver an' stuck th' coals to 'er. Then 

 Uncle Dick he took th' broth an' poured 

 it outen th' pot inter th' fry pan an' put 

 flour in it, an' made a panful uv gravy 

 what I reckon wuz never beat. It wuz 

 acchully th' best I ever see. Pa took a 

 stick an' lifted off th' skillet kiver an' a 

 smell riz outen it what come in one uv 

 makin' me swaller man tongue shore 

 'nuff. It didn't take us long ter git at it 

 an' I woulden' fool yer. I coulden' 

 make out which wuz th' best, th' biskit 

 'n' gravy er th' ducks, but I reckon th' 

 ducks wuz a little ahead. It wuz way 

 after dark when we got ter eatin', an' 

 we sot 'round th' fire with us each a 

 duck an' a plate uv gravy, an' a lot uv 



biskit, an' that's what I shore call en- 

 joyin'yerse'f. Ever once in a while a 

 night heron 'ould fly over in th' dack a 

 sayin' "kwuk-kwuk-kw-a-a-w-k," an' a fox 

 barked a couple uv times down by th' 

 hummock. 



Me 'n' Mr. Sam took a torch an' went 

 down ter th' branch an' washed th' 

 dishes, an' jest as we got back ter th' fire 

 somethin' hollered way down th' creek, 

 an' ole Ring jumped up an' raised 'is 

 bristles an' growled way down in 'is 

 goozle. We all looked at one nuther, an' 

 I sez, ''Pa, is that somebody a hollerin'?' 

 and he sez, "No, son," an' then I knowed 

 it wuz an ole pa'nter. It hollered a time 

 er 2 more an' we thought we heard some- 

 thin' answer way off, but it wuz so faint 

 we coulden' swear to it. I didn't say 

 nothin', but it made me feel sorter chilly 

 an' I wuzn't sorry ter git ter bed an' git 

 under th' blankets. 



THE LAMENT OF THE STUNTLESS ONPl 



MYRA EMMONS. 



The latest fad at functions gay 



Is for each clever guest 

 To do a stunt in some bright way, 



Or tell a merry jest. 



I haven't got no parlor tricks, 



I can't do none at all*; 

 And when among the great I mix 



I'm up against the wall. 



I can not fling my goods around 

 In skirt dance, gay and light, 



Nor kick, with airy, agile bound 

 Unto an Alpine height. 



I can not do the Lasca stunt, 

 Nor Chariot Race so fine : 



And Curfew Bell may toll all night 

 Unstopped by voice of mine. 



I can not plunk the banjo gay 



Nor pick on mandolins; 

 The rhapsody and symphony 



Are not among my sins. 



In syncopated rag time tunes 



I can not raise my voice; 

 With cake walk act, as done by coons, 



I can't my friends rejoice. 



And so I have to sit and grin 



At other people's jokes. 

 And make believe I like the din 



That's raised by other folks. 



For this my heart is full of woe, 



My soul is full of pain, 

 To know I can't, whate'er they do, 



Get back at them again. 



"Have you read 'Looking Backward?'' 

 "Certainly not. It can't be done." 

 "I mean the story." 



''Oh, yes, of course I have. She was 

 turned into a pillar of salt." — N.Y. Herald. 



