Dante.

THE LAND OF BORES

In the country of the bores people never shut the doors, and they leave
the windows open, so you're always catching cold; and they lean against
your breast while relating moldy jest that had long and flowing
whiskers when by Father Adam told. In the country of the bores people
carry sample ores, and they talk of mines prolific till you buy ten
thousand shares; and they sell you orange groves and revolving fireless
stoves, while they loll upon your divan with their feet upon your
chairs. In the country of the bores every other fellow roars of the
sins of public servants and the need of better things; in a nation full
of vice he alone is pure and nice, he alone has got a halo and a flossy
pair of wings. In the country of the bores men who wish to do their
chores are disturbed by agitators who declaim of iron heels, urging
toiling men to rise, with chain lightning in their eyes and do
something to the tyrant and his car with bloody wheels. In the country
of the bores evermore the talksmith pours floods of language on the
people, who were better left alone. But that land is far away, and we
should rejoice today that we're living in a country where no bores were
ever known.

SKILLED LABOR

The pumpmaker came to my humble abode, for the pump was in need of
repair; his auto he left by the side of the road, and his diamonds he
placed on a chair. And he said that the weather was really too cold,
for comfort, this time of the year; and he thought from Japan--though
she's haughty and bold--this country has nothing to fear. He thought
that our navy should equal the best, for a navy's a warrant of peace;
and he said when a man has a cold on his chest, there's nothing as good
as goose grease. He thought that the peach crop is ruined for good,
and the home team is playing good ball; and the currency question is
not understood, by the voters he said, not at all. Then he looked at
the pump and he gave it a whack and he kicked at the spout and said
"Shucks!" And he joggled the handle three times up and back, and
soaked me for seventeen bucks.

AN EDITORIAL SOLILOQUY

I sit all day in my gorgeous den and I am the boss of a hundred men; my
enemies shake at my slightest scowl, I make the country sit up and
howl; to the farthest ends of this blooming land men feel the weight of
my iron hand.

But, oh, for the old, old shop,
Where I printed the Punktown Dirk,
And the to