ntry's
out of plumb, and the poor downtrodden voter finds that things are on
the bum."

OLD AND NEW

New songs are made in long array; we learn and sing them,--for a day,
and then they fade and die away. But when the long, sad day is
through, refreshing as the evening dew, are those old songs our fathers
knew. New books, in rich and gorgeous dress, are coming hourly from
the press, and charm by all their lovliness. But when from bench or
desk we roam, to find the resting place at home, we read the old, old
treasured tome. New friends are made at every reach of our long road
to Styx's beach; new friends of warm and pleasant speech. But when
life's sun is in the West, and feet are tired and hearts oppressed, the
old time friend seems always best.

THE HANDY EDITOR

When a man has got a grievance that is keeping him awake, some old
moldy, tiresome trouble that has made his innards ache, then he comes
a-callyhooting to the printing-office door, for he wants to share his
trouble with the humble editore.

When a man has got a hobby that has put him on the bum, then the people
flee a-shrieking when they chance to see him come; but he knows one
weary mortal who must suffer and endure, so he comes to share his
theories with the lowly editure.

When a man has got a story that with age was stiff and stark when old
Father Noah told it to the people in the ark, then he comes, a-bubbling
over, to the Weekly Bugle's lair, for he wants to share his gladness
with the soulful editaire.

O, he's always freely giving of the things that make us tired, and he's
often pretty stingy with the things that are desired; he might bring a
ray of sunlight to a life that's sad and drear, if he'd give the absent
treatment to the heartsick editeer.

THE SLEEPER WAKES

Perhaps you've heard of old Tom Tinkle, who went to sleep like Rip Van
Winkle, and slept for thirty years; he woke the other day, and gazing
around him on the sights amazing, his soul was filled with fears.

[Illustration: The Sleeper Wakes]

"What world is this?" he asked, in terror; "what life, of which I'm now
a sharer? What globe do we infest? Oh, is it Saturn, Mars or Venus?
How many planets are between us and good old Mother Earth? What mighty
bird is that a-soaring--I seem to hear its pinions roaring, it scoots
along so fast? Old Earth, with all her varied features, had no such
big, outlandish creatures around, from first to last."

"It is