rt 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 burn, when
parents and their children are seated by the fire, remote from worldly
clamor and all the world's desire, when eyes are soft and shining, and
hearths with love aglow, how pleasant is the singing of songs of long
ago!

GUESSING VS. KNOWING

If I were selling nails or glass, or pills or shoes or garden sass, or
honey from the bee--whatever line of goods were mine, I'd study up that
special line and know its history.

If I a stock of rags should keep, I'd read up sundry books on sheep and
wool and how it grows. Beneath my old bald, freckled roof, I'd store
some facts on warp and woof and other things like those. I'd try to
know a spinning-jack from patent churn or wagon rack, a loom from
hog-tight fence; and if a man came in to buy, and asked some leading
question, I could answer with some sense.

If I were selling books, I'd know a Shakespeare from an Edgar Poe, a
Carlyle from a Pope; and I would know Fitzgerald's rhymes from Laura
Libbey's brand of crimes, or Lillian Russell's dope.

If I were selling shoes, I'd seize the fact that on g