orn,
When the sun, too, was hot,
They surely would jaw,
Punch or claw, when they got
|To the old line fence|.
In dividing the lands
It fulfilled no desires,
But answered quite well
In "dividing" our sires,
|This old line fence|.
Though sometimes in this
It would happen to fail,
When, with top rail in hand,
One would flare up and scale
|The old line fence|!
Then the conflict was sharp
On debatable ground,
And the fertile soil there
Would be mussed far around
|The old line fence|.
It was shifted so oft
That no flowers there grew.
What frownings and clods,
And what words were shot through
|The old line fence|!
Our sires through the day
There would quarrel or fight,
With a vigour and vim,
But 'twas different at night
|By the old line fence|.
The fairest maid there
You would have descried
That ever leaned soft
On the opposite side
|Of an old line fence|.
Where our fathers built hate
There we builded our love,
Breathed our vows to be true
With our hands raised above
|The old line fence|.
Its place might be changed,
But there we would meet,
With our heads through the rails,
And with kisses most sweet,
|At the old line fence|.
It was love made the change,
And the clasping of hands
Ending ages of hate,
And between us now stands
|Not a sign of line fence|.
No debatable ground
Now enkindles alarms.
I've the girl I met there,
And, well, both of the farms,
|And no line fence|.

_A. W. Bellow._

O-U-G-H

|a fresh hack at an old knot|

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h
S'all be pronounce "plow."
"Zat's easy w'en you know," I say,
"Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"

My teacher say zat in zat case,
O-u-g-h is "oo."
And zen I laugh and say to him,
"Zees Anglais make me cough."

He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word,
O-u-g-h is 'off,'"
Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds
Of words makes me hiccough!

He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong;
O-u-g-h is 'up'
In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more,
You make my t'roat feel rough."

"Non, non!" he cry, "you