h such a
discouraging club.

"And now we come to--to--ah--to--Putnam,--General Putnam: he fought in
the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his
guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the
horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go
pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with
General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, the
publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he
came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing
of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was a
mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of
these men have gone through, ain't it?

"Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook
hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New
Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes got
after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em till
they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,--hit
straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew his
fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.

"And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates,
and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have
your name, won't you?"

HER VALENTINE

BY RICHARD HOVEY

What, send her a valentine? Never!
I see you don't know who "she" is.
I should ruin my chances forever;
My hopes would collapse with a fizz.

I can't see why she scents such disaster
When I take heart to venture a word;
I've no dream of becoming her master,
I've no notion of being her lord.

All I want is to just be her lover!
She's the most up-to-date of her sex,
And there's such a multitude of her,
No wonder they call her complex.

She's a bachelor, even when married,
She's a vagabond, even when housed;
And if ever her citadel's carried
Her suspicions must not be aroused.

She's erratic, impulsive and human,
And she blunders,--as goddesses can;
But if _she's_ what they call the New Woman,
Then _I'd_ like to be the New Man.

I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,
And typewrites and hoes her own row,
And it's quite beyond reach of conjectures
How much further she'