“I could crawl to you on my hands and knees,” he said, “if I could lay my head on your breast just one little moment.” “Frank,” she exclaimed, “I am so sorry! But please, please--this is no time to discuss what’s been and gone and happened. Do go back to bed.... Count the sheep going over the hurdle.... Don’t you know I’d do anything--anything--anything--except the things I can’t do?...” There was a long silence. Then the man spoke again. “Do have pity,” he said, “for Christ’s sake!” * * * * * Then we have Arthur Somers Roche who quite often reveals much truth in his fiction. Writing recently in the Cosmopolitan, Roche, perhaps unconsciously, reveals a time-worn trick of the woman of the street in “working” a male victim. He writes: The difficulty with the Waiters’ Union had resulted in the engaging of girls as waitresses at the Central. An extremely pretty girl had just served Mr. Dabney with something. Inspiration had come to him as he started to tip her. “Worth just fifty cents, m’dear, if I put it in your hand. Worth five dollars if I put it in your stocking. What say?” The waitress essayed coyness, but failed in her endeavor. Five dollars was five dollars. She turned slightly to one side; her skirt was raised; into her stocking-top Dabney slipped the five-dollar bill. No invention of modern history has ever been acclaimed with the enthusiasm that greeted Mr. Dabney’s strikingly original idea. There was a yell from Mr. Ladd’s table; as explanation shot about the room, hilarity reached its highest pitch. Immediately a dozen girls stood close to tables, while unsteady hands that held bills fumbled at the tops of stockings. * * * * * Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How did your brewing do? It has the smell, and kicks like hell, But tastes like rotten glue. * * * * * Pass Her a Palm Fan “What sort of tree is that?” queried a Chicago girl, touring California. “Fig tree,” replied her escort. “My goodness, I thought the leaves were larger.” * * * * * A. W. O. L. means, according to officers who ought to know, “After Women Or Liquor.” Usually it’s both. _Smokehouse Poetry_ The Passing of Old Smokehouse When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears, A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years, Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more, And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door. Its architecture was a type of simple classic art, But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part; And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.