“I feel foive years younger,” said Pat. “Begorra, I feel like a boy,” said Mike. A few blocks farther Pat said: “Bejabers, Mike, don’t drink another drop of that stuff. I’ve gone back to infancy.” _Smokehouse Poetry_ _Lasca, the rhythmic tale of a girl of the Rio Grande and the stampede pictured by Paul Desprez will lead the Smokehouse Poetry for April. With it also will be “In Flanders Field,” by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCray, which is being published after many requests. Colonel McCray’s simple song of tragedy was the Marsellaise of the great world war. The author was a surgeon with the Canadian Expeditionary forces and wrote the poem during the battle of Ypres._ The Shooting of Dan McGrew By Robert W. Service. A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon, The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune; Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, While watching his luck was the light of his love. The Lady—that was known as Lou. When out of the night which was fifty below And into the din and the glare There stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks, Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear. He looked like a man with one foot in the grave And scarcely the strength of a louse, As he tilted a poke of dust on the bar And called for the drinks for the house. There was none could place the stranger’s face, Though we searched ourselves for a clew; But we drank to his health, and the last to drink, Was Dangerous Dan McGrew. There are men that somehow just grip your eyes And hold them hard like a spell, And such was he for he looked to me Like a man who had lived in hell. With a face most hair, and a glassy stare Like a dog whose day is done As he watered the green stuff in his glass And the drops fell one by one. Then I got to figuring who he was And wondering what he’d do When I turned, and there stood watching him Was the Lady, who was known as Lou. The stranger’s eyes wandered round the room And seemed in a kind of a daze Till at last that old piano fell In the way of his wandering gaze. The Rag-time Kid was having a drink There was no one else on the stool And the stranger stumbled across the room And flopped down there like a fool. In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt He sat and I seen him sway With a talon hand he clutched the keys God, but that man could play. Were you ever out on the great alone, When the night was awful clear And the icy mountains held you in With a silence that you most could hear. With only the howl of a timber wolf As you camped out there in the cold A half-dead thing in a stark dead world Clean mad, for the muck, called gold.