If one could but divest himself of his moral pulchritude, what paeans of praise would be poured forth in honor of that sinful and abhorrent thing, the naughty story! It is so brilliant, so forceful, so perfectly filed down and sharpened and polished until its edge is like the edge of a Damascus blade and its point is finer than a needle’s! Instinctively the teller of such a tale flings aside every detail which is not absolutely essential to the narrative. There is not a word too much. There is not a trace of description which, could be dispensed with. All—all is sacrificed to the exigency of brevity and to the final effect. * * * * * A Song Without Music My sweetheart’s a mule in the mine; I drive her without any line; on the bumper I sit, and tobacco I spit, all over my sweet Jenny’s spine. * * * * * Our Monthly Motto Wine, women and song are the ruination of man, so I’ve cut out singing. * * * * * Baseball Extra The game opened with Molasses at the stick and Smallpox catching. Cigar was in the box with plenty of smoke. Horn played first base and Fiddle on second base. Backed by Corn in the field made it hot for the umpire. Apple, who was rotten. Axe came to bat and chopped. Cigars let Brick walk and Sawdust filled the bases. Song made a hit and Twenty scored. Cigar went out and Balloon started to pitch, but went straight up. Then Cherry tried, but went wild. Old Ice kept cool in the game until he was hit by a pitched ball, then you ought to have heard Ice scream. Cabbage had a good head and kept quiet. Grass covered lots of ground and the crowd cheered when Spider caught a fly. Bread loafed on third base and bumped. Organ, who played a fast game, put out Lightning. In the fifth inning Wind began to blow what he could do. Hammer began to knock and Trees began to leave. The way they roasted Peanuts was a fright. Knife was put out for cutting first base. Lightning finished pitching and struck out six men. In the ninth Apple told Fiddle to take first base and then Song made a hit. Trombone made a slide and Meat was put out on the plate. There was a lot of betting on the game. But Soap cleaned up. The score was 1-0. Door said if he had pitched he would have shut them out. * * * * * Jonah to the whale: How far are we from land? Whale: Three thousand miles. Jonah: Don’t leave me, big boy! _Smokehouse Poetry_ _Introducing, in our July issue, George J. Liebst, alias “The Hobo Jungle Poet of the West!” Swing under Number Nine of the Santa Fe line with our knight of the bumpers and beams next issue and attend, in verse, Mr. Liebst’s “Hobo Convention” at Portland, Oregon! The author explains that the clickitty-clack of the wheels on the rails, as he hears them from a swinging position on the rods of Number Nine, furnish the metre of his jungle poem. He tells you who was at the great convention—_