in'.

Like a stormy mornin' now, with the water dashin'
From the eaves and from the spouts, foamin' and a-splashin',
With the leaves and twigs around, shinin' wet and drippin',
Shakin' in the wind with drops every-which-way skippin'.

[Illustration]

Like ter see the gusts of rain, where there's naught ter hinder,
Sail acrost the fields and come "spat" against the winder,
Streakin' down along the panes, floodin' sills and ledges,
Makin' little fountains, like, in the sash's edges.

Like ter see the brooks and ponds dimpled up all over,
Like ter see the di'mon's shine on the bendin' clover,
Like ter see the happy ducks in the puddles sailin'
And the stuck-up rooster all draggled, wet and trailin'.

But I like it best inside, with the fire a-gleamin',
And myself, with chores all done, settin' round and dreaming
With the kitten on my knee, and the kettle hummin',
And the rain-drops on the roof, "Home, Sweet Home" a-drummin'.

Kind er _like_ a stormy day, take it all together,
Don't believe I'd want it jest only pleasant weather;
If the sky was allers blue, guess I'd be complaining
And a-pesterin' around, wishin' it was rainin'.

* * * * *

THE HAND-ORGAN BALL

When Twilight her soft robe of shadow spreads down.
And hushed is the roar and the din,
When Evening is cooling the sweltering town,
'Tis then that the frolics begin;
And up in dim "Finnegan's Court," on the pavement,
Shut in by the loom of the tenement's wall,
'Neath the swinging arc-light, on a warm summer's night,
They gather to dance at the hand-organ ball.

'Tis not a society function, you see,
But quite an informal affair;
The costumes are varied, yet simple and free,
And gems are exceedingly rare;
The ladies are gowned in their calicoes, fetching,
And coatless and cool are the gentlemen, all.
In a jacket, they say, one's not rated _au fait_
By the finicky guests at the hand-organ ball.

There's "Ikey," the newsboy, and "Muggsy" who "shines";
There's Beppo who peddles "banan'";
There's A. Lincoln Johnson, whose "Pa" kalsomines--
His skin has a very deep tan;
There's Rosy, the cash-girl, and Mame, who ties bundles,
And Maggie, who works in the factory, tall;
She's much in demand, for she "pivots so grand,"
She's really the belle of the hand-organ ball.

Professor Spaghetti the music supplies,
From his hurdy-gurdy the waltz is sublime;
His fair daughter Rosa, whose tambourine flies,