voice that's as sad as
the sorrowing sea. They have planted him deep in the silt and the
sand, with appropriate airs by the fife and drum band, and they
joyfully yell when the sad rites are o'er: "Gosh ding him, he's taking
his straw votes no more."

FOOLING AROUND

Old Griggins the grocer, has gone to the dump, and people who knew him
say he was a chump; his prospects were fine when he opened his store,
and customers brought him their bullion and ore, and bought his
potatoes and pumpkins and peas, his milk and molasses, his chicory,
cheese. But soon they went elsewhere to blow in their plunks, for
Griggins turned out such a foolish old hunks; while others were
rustling for shilling and pound, old Griggins the grocer kept fooling
around.

He stood in the alley and ranted and tore, debating the tariff with
some one next door; he roasted the tariff on spigots and spoons while
customers waited to purchase some prunes; he argued that congress is
out for the pelf, and left his trade palace to wait on itself. And
patrons got huffy, their molars they ground, while Griggins the grocer
was fooling around.

Old Griggins kept cases on sprinters and pugs, and talked of their
records, while people with jugs were wishing he'd fill them with syrup
or oil, and cut out his yarns, which were starting to spoil; he'd talk
about Jeffries or Johnsing or Gotch for forty-five minutes or more by
the watch, while customers jingled their coin in his store, and waited
and waited, and sweated and swore. At last they would leave his old
joint on the bound, while Griggins the grocer was fooling around.

The man who would win in these strenuous days must tend to his knitting
in forty-five ways, be eager and hustling, with vim all athrob, his
mind not afield, but intent on his job. The sheriff will come with his
horse and his hound to talk with the man who keeps fooling around.

GUESS WHO!

He is the press and the people, the sultan who rules the Turks; he is
the bell in the steeple, and he is the whole blamed works. He is the
hill and valley, the dawning, the dusk, the moon; he is the large white
alley, he is the man in the moon. He is the soothing slumber, he is
the soul awake, he is the big cucumber, that gives us the bellyache.
He is the fire that quickens, the company that insures; he is the ill
that sickens, and he is the thing that cures. He is the ruling
Russian, and we are the groveling skates; he is the constituti