BRET HARTE

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar

whim,

To lay for that same member for to "put a head” on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful

to see

Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society,

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he recon

structed there,

From those same bones an animal that was

extremely rare,

And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules,

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault;

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault:

He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass-at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be

meant

Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order-when

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,

And the subsequent proceedings interested him

no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage

In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic

age;

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper

games,

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

And I've told in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

A beginner in newspaper work in a Southern town, who occasionally sent "stuff" to one of the New York dailies, picked up last summer what seemed to him a "big story." Hurrying to the telegraph office he "queried" the telegraph editor: "Column story on so and so. Shall I send it?"

The reply was brief and prompt, but, to the enthusiast, unsatisfactory. "Send six hundred words," was all it said.

"Can't be told in less than twelve hundred," he wired back.

Before long the reply came: "Story of creation of world told in six hundred. Try it."

THE V-A-S-E

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone
In which had Culture ripest grown-

The Gotham Million fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,

Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

Long they worshiped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who, blushing, said, "What a lovely vase!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo,

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
She cries, "Tis, indeed, a lovely vase!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee
And gently murmurs, “Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

Dies erit prægelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia.

JAMES JEFFRey Roche.

By permission of Life Publishing Company.

A Negro preacher addressed his flock with great earnestness on the subject of "Miracles" as follows: "My beloved friends, de greatest of all miracles was 'bout the loaves and fishes. Dey was five thousand loaves and two thousand fishes, and de twelve 'postles had to eat 'em all. De miracle is, dey didn't bust."