“The law decides questions of meum and tuum, By kindly consenting to make the thing suum, The Æsopian fable instructively tells, What becomes of the oysters, and who gets the shells. The legatees starve, but the lawyers are fed; The Seniors have riches, the Juniors have bread; The available surplus of course will be nil, From the worthy testator who makes his own will. “You had better pay toll when you take to the road, Than attempt by a by-way to reach your abode; You had better employ a conveyancer’s hand, Than encounter the risk that your will shouldn’t stand. From the broad beaten track when the traveler strays, He may land in a bog, or be lost in a maze; And the law, when defied, will avenge itself still, On the man and the woman who make their own will.” INGERSOLL ON DECORATION DAY Robert G. Ingersoll died at Dobbs Ferry, New York, July 21, 1899. He left no will. A number of his great speeches were funeral orations. The following extract from an address made on Decoration Day to the Soldiers at Indianapolis, Indiana, is regarded as the most touching example of imagery and vision to be found in English literature: “The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sound of preparation--the music of the boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part from those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babies that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing; and some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words spoken in the old tones to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door, with the babe in her arms--standing in the sunlight sobbing; at the turn of the road a hand waves--she answers by holding high in her loving hands the child. He is gone--and forever.” ELEGY ON A WIFE A tender and touching tribute to a deceased wife by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, of New York, is contained in “Thysia, an Elegy”; this beautiful little volume was issued about a year ago, and is one of the profoundest utterances of grief appearing in print in recent years. The lines below are taken from the poem “Alone,” which is typical of the contents of the volume: ALONE