M. C. Flanagan.

* * *

THE DAY OF "DON'TS."

Thanksgiving was a holiday I welcomed when a boy,
But now it is a solemn feast without a jot of joy.
It used to be a pleasure to attack the toothsome turkey,
But now when I approach the bird I'm anything but perky.

A multitude of dismal "Don'ts" impair my appetite;
A fear of what may happen me accompanies each bite.
There hovers round this holiday a heavy cloud of dread
That never lifts till I am safe, with water-bag, in bed.

I used to drink a glass of wine, but that is bad, I'm told,
So now I ship in water--just as much as I can hold.
To fail to fletcherize my food were fatal, without question;
I never touch the stuffing, as it taxes the digestion.

When the lugubrious feast is done I hasten from my chair
To open all the windows wide, and let in lots of air;
And then I sit around an hour and chew a wad of gum
Until the fullness disappears from my distended tum.

That pleasant, dozy feeling I compel myself to shake,
For should I venture on a nap I'd never, never wake;
And if I sneeze I take alarm and hasten out of doors,
To start a circulation in my poison-clotted pores.

The fact that I am still alive is due, I'm glad to say,
To heeding all the dinner "Don'ts" that went with yesterday.
It was, from soup to raisins, by and large, and all in all,
The solemnest Thanksgiving meal that ever I recall.

* * *

A BALANCED TUITION.

Sir: The fourth grade teacher in Roland, Ia., is Viola Grindem.
Fortunately for the kids the high school principal is Cora Clement.

T. B.

* * *

"We wish the cooeperative factories, a success," says an esteemed
contemporary on our left. So do we, with this prediction, that if
success is achieved it will be by the same methods that are employed in
the iniquitous capitalistic system.

* * *

Although the name topic bores us to distinction, as a young lady of our
acquaintance puts it, we should feel we were posing if we neglected to
find room for the following:

Sir: Deedonk, can you provide a chaise longue in the Romance language
department of the Academy for George E. Ahwee of Colon, Panama?

Rusty.

* * *

We knew what was meant, and yet it gave us a slight start to read in a
Minnesota paper,