ikes and two-foot rules. He
climbed upon my lap and prodded with crowbar and with garden spade, to
see that I was not defrauded of all the agony that's made. He pulled
and yanked and pried and twisted, and uttered oft his battle shout, and
now and then his wife assisted--till finally the teeth came out. And
never once while thus he pottered around my torn and mangled jowl--not
once, while I was being slaughtered, did I let out a single howl! No
brass-bands played, none sang a ditty of triumph as I took my way; no
signs of "Welcome to Our City" were hung across the street that day!

Thus you and I and plain, plug mortals may show a courage high and
fine, and be obscure, while some jay chortles in triumph where the
limelights shine.

PLAY BALL

"Play ball!" you hear the fans exclaim, when weary of a dragging game,
when all the players pause to state their theories in a joint debate,
or when they go about their biz as though they had the rheumatiz. And
if they do not heed the hunch that's given by the bleachers bunch, they
find, when next they start to play, that all the fans have stayed away.
The talking graft is all in vain, and loafers give the world a pain.
The fans who watch the game of life despise the sluggard in the strife.
They'll have but little use for you, who tell what you intend to do,
and hand out promises galore, but, somehow, never seem to score. No
matter what your stunt may be, in this the country of the free, you'll
find that loafing never pays; cut out the flossy grand stand plays; put
in your hardest licks and whacks, and get right down to Old Brass
Tacks, and, undismayed by bruise or fall, go right ahead--in short,
play ball!

THE OLD SONGS

The modern airs are cheerful, melodious and sweet; we hear them sung
and whistled all day upon the street. Some lilting ragtime ditty
that's rollicking and gay will gain the public favor and hold it--for a
day. But when the day is ended, and we are tired and worn, and more
than half persuaded that man was made to mourn, how soothing then the
music our fathers used to know! The songs of sense and feeling, the
songs of long ago! The "Jungle Joe" effusions and kindred roundelays
will do to hum and whistle throughout our busy days; and in the garish
limelight the yodelers may yell, and Injun songs may flourish--and all
is passing well, but when to light the heavens the shining stars
return, and in the cottage windows the lights begin to bu