He'd die. But this is just a notion.

Still when the Captain comes to port
With barrels of oil from whales caught napping,
He'll pace the deck, and loudly snort,
"This land air is my strength a-sapping.

"I call this living on hard terms;
I wish that I had never seen land;
I wish I were a-chasing sperms
Abaft the nor'east coast of Greenland."

Yet on his latest cruise, 'tween whales
The Captain wrote a book most charming.
It's called--and it is having sales--
"Some Practical Advice on Farming."

T.H. SMITH

Tom Henry Smith I long have known
Although he really is a hermit--
At least, Tom Henry lives alone,
And that's what people always term it.

Tom Henry never is annoyed
By fashion's change. He wears a collar
Constructed out of celluloid.
His hats ne'er cost above a dollar.

Tom loves about his room to mess,
And cook a sausage at the fireplace.
It doesn't serve to help his dress--
Grease spatters over the entire place.

Tom Henry likes to read a book,
And writes a little for the papers,
But scarcely ever leaves his nook,
And takes no part in social capers.

Now Tom has penned a book himself.
I hope he'll never feel compunctions!
Its title is--it's on my shelf--
"Pink Teas and Other Social Functions."

RUTH JONES

I've found the Joneses pleasant folk--
I've watched them all their children fetch up.
Jones loves to have a quiet smoke--
_She's_ famous for tomato catchup.

Ruth is their eldest--now fifteen,
A tallish girl with pleasing features.
Each school-day morn she can be seen
As she trips by to meet her teachers.

A serious-minded miss, you'd say,
Not given much to school-girl follies.
She still sometimes will slip away
To spend a half-hour with her dollies.

She's learned to sweep, to sew, to bake--
She's quite a helpmate to her mother.
On Saturday she loves to take
The go-cart out with little brother.

At writing now she bids for fame--
Her book a great success is reckoned.
"By Right of Flashing Sword," its name,
A strong romance of James the Second.

THE LOST WORD

BY JOHN PAUL

Seated one day at the typewriter,
I was weary of a's and e's,
And my fingers wandered wildly,
Over the conso