th of virtue must be fine; I'll have no wickedness in
mine." And some day, when you're old and gray, that youth may come
along your way, and say, in language ringing true: "All that I've won I
owe to you! When I was young I read your rot; it hit a most responsive
spot, encouraged me for stress and strife, and made me choose the best
in life." And this will warm your heart and brain; you'll know you
have not lived in vain. But if you write disgusting dope, that thrusts
at Truth, and Faith and Hope; if you apologize for vice, and show that
wickedness is nice, it well may chance, when you are old, and in your
veins the blood runs cold, there'll come your way some dismal wreck,
who'll roast you sore, and cry: "By heck! And also I might say, by
gum! 'Twas you that put me on the bum! Your writings got me headed
wrong; you threw it into Virtue strong; and in the prison that you see,
I'm convict No. 23!"

FARM MACHINERY

We have things with cogs and pulleys that will stack and bale the hay,
we have scarecrows automatic that will drive the crows away; we have
riding cultivators, so we may recline at ease, as we travel up the corn
rows, to the tune of haws and gees; we have engines pumping water,
running churns and grinding corn, and one farmer that I know of has a
big steam dinner horn; all of which is very pleasant to reflect upon, I
think, but we need a good contrivance that will teach the calves to
drink.

Now, as in the days of Noah, man must take a massive pail, loaded up
with milk denatured, with a dash of Adam's ale, and go down among the
calfkins as the lion tamer goes 'mong the monarchs of the jungle, at
the famous three-ring shows; and the calves are fierce and hungry, and
they haven't sense to wait, till he gets a good position and has got
his bucket straight; and they act as though they hadn't e'en a
glimmering of sense, for they climb upon his shoulders ere he is inside
the fence, and they butt him in the stomach, and they kick him
everywhere, till he thinks he'd give a nickel for a decent chance to
swear; then they all get underneath him and capsize him in the mud, and
the milk runs down his whiskers and his garments in a flood, and you
really ought to see him when he goes back to his home quoting divers
pagan authors and the bards of ancient Rome. And he murmurs while he's
washing mud off at the kitchen sink: "What we need is a contraption
that will teach the calves to drink!"

We've machinery f