’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeans I searched but in vain for the price of some beans. Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit; The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit. Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight, Make it tomorrow—just for tonight. * * * * * Hubby came home, tangle-footed, His wifie met him at the door, Grabbed the bottle from his pocket— “Empty? Go and get some more!” * * * * * Irene Talbot, skillful typist, Works for Dave A. Masterbilt. Writes a neat and snappy letter, Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.” * * * * * A Plea for the Prodigal Girl By O. D. Copeland. I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul, The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all; And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men, And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again, I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun, And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son. All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive, It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live; They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun, The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son, But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world— They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl. Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,” Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son; Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world, That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl. There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall, And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all. But he is led back in society and nursed with the tenderest care, Held up to the world as a hero, and mentioned in fervent prayer, While she is cast out from her loved ones; out in the hard, cruel world, And everyone points out and scorns her, the poor little prodigal girl, Now, as has been said quite often, and we will repeat it again, That the lowest of fallen women are better than most of the men. * * * * * Ten-year Mary saw her mother Dolled all up—skirt “a la sport.” “Mama, when will I be grown up And can wear my dresses short?” * * * * * Ahoy, Liza’s Fig Tree! Returning from France, a colored trooper was awakened from his nap on the deck by a companion who shouted to him to get up and look at a passing sail boat.