and grant as little as I like.
Men may doubt fire and the stars, but not me.

Nobody ever saw me, yet I am the one reality. Nobody knows anything
about me. So long as time shall last my secret is safe. Yet I am
ever on the lips of men. My name is lisped by the toddling infant and
chortled by hoary-headed sages.

I am the one that you will eventually disown.

I am _tomorrow_.

_Tomorrow Never Arrives_

Always lookin' forward to an easy-goin' time,
When the world seems movin' careless like a bit of idle rime;
A day when there is nothin' that kin make you sigh or fret;
Always lookin' forward--but I haven't seen it yet.

FUTURE LIFE

Mr. Tarzon Jones was sitting down to breakfast one morning when he was
astounded to see in the paper an announcement of his own death.

He rang up his friend Howard Smith at once. "Halloa, Smith!" he said.
"Have you seen the announcement of my death in the paper?"

"Yes," replied Smith. "Where are you speaking from?"

TEACHER--"And what was Nelson's farewell address?"

BRIGHT BOY--"Heaven, ma'am."

At the grave of the departed the old darky pastor stood, hat in hand.
Looking into the abyss he delivered himself of the funeral oration.

"Samuel Johnson," he said sorrowfully, "you is gone. An' we hopes you
is gone where we 'specks you ain't."

POST--"A man can die but once."

PARKER--"Once used to be enough, until these psychic experts got
busy."

A French biologist declares that by a freezing process, somewhat
similar to that used in preserving fish, the span of human life can
be indefinitely extended. By going into cold storage here, we can
postpone a hot time hereafter.

"Well, Bill," asked a neighbor. "Hear the boss has had a fever? How's
his temperature today?"

The hired man scratched his head and decided not to commit himself.

"'Tain't fer me to say," he replied. "He died last night."

A park orator returning home flushed with his oratorical efforts, and
also from other causes, found a mild curate seated opposite in the
tram-car. "It may interest you to know," he said truculently, "that I
don't believe in the existence of a 'eaven." The curate merely nodded,
and went on reading his newspaper. "You don't quite realize," said the
park orator, "what I'm trying to make clear. I want you to understand
that I don't believe for a single, solitary moment that such a
place as 'eaven exists." "All right, all right," answered the