young man promised a charming young woman, as a birthday
remembrance, a rose for every year she was old. After he had given the
order for two dozen Killarneys, the florist said to his boy: "He's a
good customer. Just put in half a dozen extra."

M. C. G.

* * *

"When," inquires a fair reader, apropos of our remark that the only way
to improve the so-called human race is to junk it and begin over again,
"when does the junking begin? Because...." Cawn't say when the big
explosion will occur. But look for us in a neighboring constellation.

When they junk the human species
We will meet you, love, in Pisces.

* * *

THE TOONERVILLE TROLLEY.

Sir: Did you ever ride on a street car in one of those towns where no
one has any place to go and all day to get there in? The conversation
runs something like this between the motorman and conductor:

Conductor: "Ding ding!" (Meaning, "I'm ready whenever you are.")

Motorman: "Ding ding!" ("Well, I'm ready.")

Conductor: "Ding ding!" ("All right, you can go.")

Motorman: "Ding ding!" ("I gotcha, Steve.")

Then they go.

P. I. N.

* * *

O WILD! O STRANGE!

"That wild and strange thing, the press."--H. G. Wells.

It's now too late, I fear, to change,
For ever since a child
I've always been a little strange,
And just a little wild.

I never knew the reason why,
But now the cause I guess--
What Mr. Wells, the author, calls
"That wild, strange thing, the press."

I've worked for every kind of pape
In journalism's range,
And some were tame and commonplace,
But most were wild and strange.

I ran a country paper once--
Or, rather, it ran me;
It was the strangest, wildest thing
That ever you did see.

Some years ago I settled down
And thought to find a cure
By writing books and plays and sich,
That class as litrachoor.

And for a time I lived apart,
In abject happiness;
Yet all the while I hankered for
That strange, wild thing, the press.

Its fatal fascination I
Could not resist for long;
I fled the path of litrachoor,
And once again went wrong.

I resurrected this here Col,
By which you are beguiled.
I fear you find it strange sometimes,
And always rather wild.

* * *

A delegation of Socialists has returned fr