ollar you waste when you ought not to spend it
Buys something no plutocrat's millions could lend it,
For if once you exhaust
All your care of the cost,
Full half of the pleasure of purchase is lost,
So I trust you are one who is wise in discerning
The value of spending is most in the earning.

My little success which was nearest complete
Was that which I tore from the teeth of defeat,
And the man who can hit
With his wisdom and wit
Without any effort, I envy no whit.
The genius whose laurels grow always the greenest
Finds pleasure in plenty, but misses the keenest.

WHAT SORT ARE YOU?

"How much do you want for your A. Street lot?"
Said a real estate man to me.
I looked as if I were lost in thought
And then I replied: "Let's see;--
Black's sold last year at fifty the foot
And without using algebra that should put
My figure at sixty now, I guess,
Or a trifle more, or a trifle less."
I was anxious to sell at fifty straight,
Or I might have been glad of forty-eight.
Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true;
What sort of a bluff are you?

"And what do you think of these railroad rates?"
The man with a bald brow said,
"For you have travelled through all the states
And have heard a good deal and read."
"The railroad lines," I wisely replied
"Are the lines with which our trade is tied,
And the wretches who take their rebates set
New knots in the bonds under which we fret."
But, now I remember, I once rode free
And forgot that the road rebated me!
Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, its true;
How much of a bluff are you?

"You've been to hear 'Siegfried' and found it fine?"
Cried a classical friend one day.
"I'm sure your impressions accord with mine,
But I want your own words and way.
And, oh, "the tone-color beats belief,"
And, oh, "dynamics," and oh, "motif,"
And "chiar-oscura, how finely abstruse,"
And oh, la-la-la, and oh, well, what's the use?
For the only thing I understood in the play
Was that dippy, old dragon of _papier-mache_.
Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true;
What style of a bluff are you?

"And the senator should, you believe, be returned?"
Said a newspaper-man to me.
"He's as rotten a rascal as ever burned,"
I