XXIV 



RECREATION. 



KUROPATKIN'S PAY. 



The salary of General Kuropatkin, it is said, 

 amounts to about $100,000 a year. 



When General Kuropatkin draws his week- 

 ly envelope, 

 A matter of 2 thousand, as I figure out 



the dope, 

 He must indeed feel sheepish ; in fact, if 



he's sincere, 

 He probably looks everywhere except at 



the cashier. 

 You know the way it is yourself when 



things are going wrong, 

 You hate to take your wages, though the 



figure be a song. 

 Sometimes, I know, I feel inclined my 



salary to miss 

 When I have filled my columns with things 



about like this. 



When General Kuropatkin draws his week- 

 ly envelope, 



Just after being driven from another easy 

 slope, 



And sees the yellow bank notes that glisten 

 in the sun, 



And fondles them endearingly, and counts 

 them on the run, 



I'll wager that he blushes, if Muscovites 

 can blush, 



And make another effort to stop the Japs' 

 mad rush. 



I'll wager that he mutters, "It would not 

 seem so strangesky 



To find in next week's envelope some ko- 

 pecks and small changesky." 



Ah, well ! This world we live in is a very 

 curious blend, 



And there are many, many things we can 

 not comprehend. 



Think of the countless thousands never 

 driven to the woods 



Who make about 12 bones a week deliver- 

 ing the goods ! 



Think of the men with pompous fronts and 

 nothing else at all 



Who make the coin so fast they couldn't 

 store it in a hall ! 



No wonder that from day to day the Czar 

 is losing hope, 



When General Kuropatkin draws his week- 

 ly envelope. 



—Milwaukee Sentinel. 



Miss Plane : He thinks me pretty, doesn't 

 he? 



Miss Chellus : I'm sure I don't know. 



Miss Plane : Why, May told me she 

 heard him telling you I was "just as pretty 

 as I could be." 



Miss Chellus: Well ? — Philadelphia 

 Press. 



Wabash — Is her position in society se- 

 cure? 



Lakesi'W- [ should say so. Why, that 

 womn-- H-:^s a divorce lawyer by the year 



*— JiAch^ige. 



MY GUIDE'S FABLE. 



I swung to the ripplin' shallers an' brung 



the canoe a-land, 

 An' there wuz a fine red squirrel a-cussin' 



to beat the band ; 

 A-snappin' his teeth an' barkin', a-jerkin' 



his bushy tail — 

 The things what he said wuz shockin', up 



there on the Injun trail. 



Sez he, "Look a-here, young feller ; these 



woods is a den o' thieves ! 

 I'd gethered a pile o' hazels an' hid 'em 



among the leaves ; 

 When up comes that highway robber — that 



scallywag, bluecoat jay— 

 The son o' the thief that hatched 'im, an' 



filches the lot away ! 

 I won't eat a speck o' dinner ! I swear it 



upon my soul ! 

 Until I kin make that sinner surrender 



them nuts he stole !" 



"The forest is thick with hazels!" sez I, 



"an' the medder corn 

 Is meller with juicy kernels ez white ez 



them teeth o' yo'rn. 

 The shell o' the shagbark's open ; the 



ches'nut hez bu'st the burr ; 

 The cones in a thousan' tassels is ripe on 



the glossy fir. 

 A pert little chap, ez yo' be, with on'y the 



meanest luck, 

 C'uld find, in a whisk an' scamper, ten 



times what the jaybird tuk. 

 Besides, in" the chipmunk's pantry they say 



there's an empty shelf. 

 An', beggin yo'r pardin, ain't yo' a bit of a 



thief yo'rself?" 



Pie jaws me a piece like fury; then squeaks 



like the Squire in hall 

 A-scoldin' a stupid jury: "Yo' don't git 



the pi'nt at all ! 

 I'd guv 'em, an' guv my blessin' ! but," 



givin his tail a fling, 

 "Aw, shucks fer the nuts ! I'm pressin' 



the principle 0' the thing!" 



"Ef you'd been a King," I hollers, "I 

 reck'n that you'd a spent 



A couple of million dollars collectin' a cop- 

 per cent !" 

 Arthur Guiterman, in N. Y. Times. 



"Who is that chap talking so much over 

 there?" 



"Oh, he's a big gun ; full, too." 



"Why, he doesn't walk as if he had been 

 drinking." 



"No, but like other big guns he is more 

 dangerous when you don't know he is 

 loaded." — Baltimore Herald. 



A Mormon boy out in Utah, 



One day chanced to meet his own pa; 



Cried the glad little one: 



"Shake, pa; I'm your son!" 

 "Indeed?" said the man; "who's your ma?" 

 —Chicago Rccord-Heraldi , 



