lookin' shadder in a fog;
And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf
Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph.

She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time;
She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime:
Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show,
With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row:
But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out
And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout;
We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash,
'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash.

* * * * *

WHEN PAPA'S SICK

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes!
Such awful, awful times it makes.
He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones,
And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans,
And rolls his eyes and holds his head,
And makes Ma help him up to bed,
While Sis and Bridget run to heat
Hot-water bags to warm his feet,
And I must get the doctor _quick_,--
We have to _jump_ when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick Ma has to stand
Right 'side the bed and hold his hand,
While Sis, she has to fan an' fan,
For he says he's "a dyin' man,"
And wants the children round him to
Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through";
He says he wants to say good-by
And kiss us all, and then he'll die;
Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",--
It's awful sad when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick he acts that way
Until he hears the doctor say,
"You've only got a cold, you know;
You'll be all right 'n a day or so";
And then--well, say! you ought to see--
He's different as he can be,
And growls and swears from noon to night
Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right;
And all he does is fuss and kick,--
We're _all_ used up when Papa's sick.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone
On the top av a hill be the town av Athione,
And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone,
That he played in an iligant style av his own.
And often I've heard me ould grandfather say,
That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day,
the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray
McCarty would rise and this tune he would play:

"Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes,
Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!"
With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin',
Fo