MARCH. - 
John Rockefeller, past amends, 
Was calmly raking dividends. 
The increment from Standard Oil 
Responded nicely to his toil, 
Said John, “I like this sort of thing; 
It‘s good to be a money king. 
“It has its drawbacks here and there 
But on the whole the sport is fair.” 
The income tax collector slowed 
His motor cycle in the road. 
’ He watched the money king a while, 
And then approached him with a 
smile. 
“Friend John,’ said he, in manner 
mild; 
“Your income statement—is it filed?” 
John Rockefeller turned around 
And cleared the meadow with a 
bound. 
Nor did he falter in his pace 
Till he was in his hiding place. 
“Great Scott!” he said, and mopped 
his brow; 
“How many taxes are there now?” 
March gets its name from Mars, 
the god of war, and in the-old Ro- 
man calendar it was the first month 
of the year. One of the most unique 
and terrible controversies in history 
raged over its availability for that 
purpose from the time of Numa, in 
the seventh century before Christ, to 
that of Caesar. Just before Numa 
came to the throne the Roman Sen- 
ate passed a law prohibiting spring 
duck shooting. Numa, who was a 
duck shooter and had one of the best 
blinds in the Pontine Marsh, nullified 
the law by beginning the year in 
March and throwing spring over to 
the heated season, when the ducks 
had gone north, The game protec- 
tionists made a stubborn resistance, 
but they were defeated at Bologna 
and driven back beyond the Rubicon. 
Duck shooters held the fort suc- 
cessfully until Caesar, who restored 
March as the first month of spring 
and began draining ‘the Pontine 
Marsh for agricultural purposes, Cae- 
sar had no patience with duck shoot- 
ing. He was subject to fits, and he 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
found that whenever a bunch of ducks 
came in to his decoys and he didn’t 
get any, he always had a particularly: 
hard fit. This prejudiced him 
against the sport, and he tried to 
ruin it. He was promptly assassin- 
ated by Brutus and other duck shoot- 
ers, but he was very popular, and the 
calendar remains to this day exactly 
as he left it. 
The pall of Lent shall fall upon 
The tango and the minuet, 
And in the bliss of winter gone 
The colt shall turn a somerset. 
The wind shall make the weather 
vane 
Erode a groove around the stick, 
The equinoctial hurricane 
Shall push the mortar through the 
brick, 
The Democrats shall chase the trusts 
Through trackless deserts of 
debate, 
And in the hope that Huerta busts 
The Government shall watch and 
wait. 
We are not doing quite so well as 
if the army should intrude, but still 
are Satisfied to shell the palace with 
our attitude. The big round shot of 
what we think invade the windows 
and the doors; they perforate the 
kitchen sink and make dilapidate the 
floors. They fire the sheets in 
Huerta’s bed until he gets but little 
rest, they hit the house cat on. the 
head and knock the china galley 
west; they spit and sputter in the 
soup, and overturn the royal wine; 
they make the household loop the 
loop and knock the fig leaf from the 
vine; they mutilate the royal purse 
and render hazardous a meal, and are 
indeed a great deal worse than if we 
fashioned them of steel. 
The psychic missiles we project at 
tyranny behind its wall are far more 
lasting in effect than any real cannon- 
ball, Behind the one are nothing 
more than powder flashing in the 
pan, the darkness that has gone be- 
fore, the base brutality of man. The 
wall may fall, the tyrant die, and 
evil still may be intact; but let the 
world’s opinion fly, and see the diff- 
erence in fact. Behind that sort of 
shot are all the progress humankind 
has made, the better triumphs great 
and small, the hosts of conscience 
unafraid. Those unseen shot are 
very strange to neighbor Huerta and 
his kind; we always seem to have the 
range, no matter what they get be- 
hind. Our gunners labor day -and 
night, they never seem to tire and 
quit; they always take the proper 
sight, and never fail to score a hit. 
They keep the place in such a plight 
as never place was kept before; one 
can’t put out the cat at night but 
twenty shells pop in the door; the 
thing fills Huerta with disgust—he 
doesn’t save psychic metal; and when 
he quits he’ll put up dust at high as 
Popocatapetl. 
At any rate, the warning shot 
In trust reform shall rouse the fats, 
And milliners shall show us what 
The tariff cut has done for hats. 
The hen shall try to overcome 
The widespread dominance of 
prunes, ; 
The drys shall chase the demon rum 
Around the terrified saloons, 
The robin shall awake the morn 
With sweet apostrophes to-day, 
The early daisy shall adorn 
The quiet spaces by the way, 
~The women folks shall shake the 
ground 
In hot pursuit of cigarettes, 
And the President shall hide around 
In deadly fear of suffragettes. 
This is the spring we long have 
sought and mourned because we had 
it not. The sky is very soft and blue. 
the bobolink is bobbing through; the 
sadly desolated scene is turning beau- 
tifully green, and old King Winter 
and his men have given up the field 
again. 
There may be people here and there 
Who do not give a whoop outdoors; 
But let us hope, if so we dare, 
That no such sentiments are yours. 
The festive calf, for spring re- 
vealed, goes castle walking up the 
field. The southern winds are soft 
and sweet, though watching out for 
snow and sleet, The meadowlark is 
on the mead with music suited to 
our need, and up the sky in wedged 
rows the wild goose musically goes. 
- There may be someone made of stone 
Whose heart is dead to this dispiay ; 
But let us hope that like our own, > 
Yours isn’t that kind, anyway. 
The hired man, with spring’s ad- 
vance sheds seven extra pairs of 
pants. The fragrant mothball re- 
appears, and poetry cocks up its ears. 
The bullfrog boometh by the lake, 
the old gray planet is awake, and 
dead things gambol from their faults 
to do the hesitation waltz. 
There may, of course, be one or two 
Whose hearts do not go pit-a-pat; 
But we are confident that you 
Are no such wooden man as that. 
March 4th will be the first anniver- 
