Science and music succumb to me;

Art and invention lay low;
Wealth of the ages return to be
Ground by the foot of a foe.

Consider the lily arrayed in light,
Sufficient for all her need.
While golden towers of lordly might
Are bent like a broken reed.

-Alfred J. Davis.

ODE TO AUTUMN.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never

cease;

For summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. -John Keats.

INSURANCE.

By Miriam Teichner.

I can never grow old, I can never grow cold,

I can never grow wrinkled nor ugly; And the thought in my heart has just taken a hold

And made itself comfy and snugly.

I can never grow woeful and loveless and sad,

I can never be grouchy and growly;

I will never have temper-fits, crabbed and bad,

I will never be crows-footed-scowly.

I've a wonderful charm against ill-temper harm,

It's a sort of-well-old-age insurance; And I haven't a dread nor a bit of alarm About its true worth and endurance.

I'll never have lines from my nose to my mouth,

I'll never be horrid and hatey;

My lips at the corners will never point south,

Though I'm fifty or sixty or eighty.

'Tis your hug, Little Boy, that has brought me this joy,

Your four-year-old arms tight around me; You brought me this bliss with the touch of your kiss,

And the little love-spirit has found me. 'Twas the bear hug you gave when you bade me good-bye,

That will always be old-age insurance; And I haven't a fear-no, indeedy, not I, About its true worth and endurance.

PASSING VERSE.

Geese.

When folk do silly, foolish things,
Then people laugh, and cry:

"Why, they are geese!" and yet, you know, I often wonder why.

For geese are stately, queenly birds,
Too grave to fly or sing:

And I have never seen a goose
That did a foolish thing.

An ostrich has been famed in jokes,
Because he hides his head;

And chickens run across the road,
'Neath cars that leave them dead,
But geese they walk with solemn grace;
They seldom shriek or call;
Perhaps you'd like, for all folk say,

To be one after all!

-Margaret E. Sangster, Jr., in the Christian Herald.

THE DOMINANT VOICE. High above the traffic clanging sounds the whanging and the banging

Of the loud pneumatic hammer far and near,

And each nerve and fiber quivers at the blows that it delivers

As its irritant vibrations reach the ear, Yet the brash pneumatic hammer makes a healthy sort of clamor

Which awakes us with its vigorous appeal From a somnolent condition to a state of keen ambition

As it batters and it clatters on the steel!

Oh, the blood's a warmer liquor and the feet are moving quicker

As this jaunty voice of progress rises high;

And the steel frames clamber higher toward the goal of men's desire, Like a dreamer's magic towers in the

sky;

Sylvanus knew his business well and he would pull him through.

He bruised him, banged him, buried him, an' did a han'some job,

But still we knew the chap was safe with ol' Sylvanus Cobb.

He'd get the chap in dungeons deep, with soldiers all about,

To fill his body full of shot if he should once git out;

Sylvanus was too shrewd for that, an' always had in stock

A subterranus passageway through which the chap could walk.

An' though he slashed an' slaughtered him, he understood his job;

We knowed that we could trust the man with ol' Sylvanus Cobb.

We'd see the hero's funeral, we'd hear the parson pray,

We'd see his coffin in the tomb, all neatly packed away,

But that didn' worry us a bit. Above the yawnin' grave

We knowed Sylvanus still was there, an' he had power to save.

We'd leave him in the grave content, an' we didn' care a pin,

We knowed Sylvanus knowed the trick to git him out ag'in,

While Sylvanus led his hero we were not a bit afraid,

Though he marched ag'in an army an' he faced a cannonade;

Though a mine should cave in on him, though a whirlpool sucked him in, We all trusted to Sylvanus to produce him sound ag'in.

And Sylvanus allus done it. Oh, he understood the job:

We knowed that we could trust the man with ol' Sylvanus Cobb.

Give me them good 'ol days of guns, of snakes, an' gapin' jaws,

Of wolves an' raging catamounts, with blood upon their paws:

W'en six-foot heroes courted girls that they had snatched away

From out a bloody bandit's

tramped him into clay.

clasp, an'

I wish we had some writers now who understood the job.

Some writers who could sling themselves like ol' Sylvanus Cobb.

-Sam Walter Foss.

IMMATERIAL.

We submit Booker T. Washington's latest story:

"Old Uncle Cal Clay invited the parson to eat Christmas dinner with him. The parson accepted, and the spread was magnificent-sweet potatoes and celery, cranberries and mince pie, plum pudding, and a turkey so big and yet so tender that the parson had never seen the like before.

"Uncle Cal,' the parson said, as he spread the clear pink cranberry sauce over the slice of breast, 'Uncle Cal, where did you get this wonderful turkey?"

"'Pawson,' said Uncle Calhoun Clay solemnly, 'when you preached dat wonderful Christmas sermon dis mawnin', did I ax you whah you got him? Nuh, no. Dats a trival matter'."

SLOW PROGRESS.

A regiment of regulars was making a long, dusty march across the rolling prairie land of Montana. It was a hot, blistering day, and the men, longing for water and rest, were impatient to reach the next town. A rancher rode past.

"Say, friend," called out one of the men, "how far is it to the next town?"

"Oh, a matter of two miles or so, I reckon," called back the rancher.

Another hour dragged by, and another rancher was encountered.

"How far to the next town?" the men asked him eagerly.

"Oh, a good two miles."

"A weary half hour longer of marching, and then a third rancher.

"Hey, how far's the next town?"

"Not far," was the encouraging answer. "Only about two miles."

"Well," sighed the optimistic sergeant, "thank goodness, we're holdin' our Own anyhow!"-Pittsburg Chronicle Telegraph.

SLANG-SLINGING SOUL-SAVING SUG

GESTIONS.

Observing the success of the Billy Sunday methods in the matter of conversion,

"Puck" suggests that the attempt be made to apply the same methods to other church ceremonies and activities. The following formulas are proposed:

Pastor (christening infant)-What do you want to call this hunk of excess baggage, Bo?

Presiding Parson-What miserable mutt giveth this skirt to be married to this gink? The Bride's Father-I'm the guy.

Industrious Usher-Slide, you ice-carts!

Slide!

Passing the Plate-Come across with the iron men, you low-lived tight-wads!

Sunday School Superintendent-All of you little flivvers that want to swat Satan, stand on one leg.

A CAHBON COPY.

"Dat baby of you's," said Mrs. Jacksing, "am de puffect image ob his fathah." "Yas," answered Mrs. Johnsing. "He am a reg'lar cah bon copy."

DO YOU BELIEVE THIS?

A plumber once presented to a millionaire a bill of $100 for mending a pipe.

But the millionaire handed the plumber a dollar note and said severely:

"Receipt that bill of yours in full." "But-but" said the plumber.

"Receipt it in full," the millionaire repeated. "I used to be a plumber man myself."

The plumber at this gave a great start, receipted the bill and handed the millionaire 59 cents change.-Detroit Free Press.

NO CHARGE FOR TELEGRAM. He was Scotch all right, was Sandy MacGregor, and had mislaid his wallet containing $500 at the railway station.

He telegraphed his loss to the railway station agent and the wallet was kept until his return a month later.

The finder, a young clerk, handed MacGregor the missing wallet and stood in an attitude of eager expectation. The Scot unheedingly counted his money and then

looked long and suspiciously at the young clerk.

"Isn't it right?" stammered the latter in bewilderment.

"Right! Right! It's right enough," said MacGregor, "but whur's the month's interest?"-St. Louis Labor.

SUSPICIOUS

the

Detective "Billy" Burns returned other day from a tour through the country in the interest of the Bankers' association. He was profoundly impressed with the merits of western Pennsylvania as a place of residence.

"Nothing like it for a man that's inclined to be a bit low-spirited," said Mr. Burns. "They don't take any chances with you there at all. Why, if you go into a store and ask for a bit of clothesline the storekeeper will open a big book.

""What do you want this rope for?' he asks.

""The old woman needs it to hang the wash on.'

"And what's your name?' the storekeeper asks.

"Herman Wilhelm Pfeifer.'

"'G'wan,' says the storekeeper, closing the book. 'You can't get no rope here without a prescription.'"-Cincinnati Star.

THE DIFFERENCE.

Times

all the horseflies when everybody uses automobiles."-Youngstown Telegram.

ISN'T A LOAF ALWAYS BREAD. "How is Robert getting on at college?" asked the minister, who was being entertained at dinner.

"Splendidly," said the proud father, who then went on to tell of his son's various social, athletic and scholastic successes, and the minister said it was a fine thing to be college-bred.

That evening little James, who had been an interested listener, said, "Papa, what did Mr. Brown mean by 'college-bred'?"

"Oh, that," said papa, who had been looking over his son's bills, "is a four years' loaf."-Ladies' Home Journal.

A fond husband was seeing his wife off with the children for their summer vacation in the country. As she got into the train he said, "My dear, won't you take some fiction to read?"

"Oh, no," she responded sweetly, "I shall depend upon your letters from home."-Exchange.

SHE KNEW.

According to a lively contemporary, the wife of the governor of a certain state was telling a servant about her husband. "My husband, Bridget," she said, proudly, "is at the head of the state militia." "Oi t'ought as much, ma'am," said Bridget, cheerfully. "Ain't he got the foine malicious look."-Youth's Companion.

A NATURAL INQUIRY.

A little girl traveling in a sleeping car with her parents greatly objected to being put in an upper berth. She was assured that papa, mamma and God would watch over her. She was settled in the berth at last, and the passengers were quiet for the night when a small voiced piped:

"Mamma!"

"Yes, dear."

"You there!"

"Yes, I'm here. Now go to sleep."

"Papa, you there!"

"Yes, I'm here. Go to sleep like a good girl."

This continued at intervals for some time, until a fellow passenger lost patience and called: "We're all here! Your father and mother, and brothers and sisters, and