_“Texas Slim from Lone Star,_ _”And Jack, the Katydid;_ _“Lonesome Lew from Kalamazoo,_ _“And the San Diego Kid.”_ _Put on your hobo clothes and travel with the Whiz Bang to the “convention” in the July issue!_ _Next month we’re to witness a great ball game, in which the Mighty Casey, who, as you may recall, struck out in the famous ninth and lost the same for Mudville, stages a comeback! Get ready for this “curve.” It’s a home-run winner!_ * * * * * Way down in the Garden of Eden Was Adam with Eve on his knee. They never sat down, But just laid around, In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree. * * * * * The Island By the Sea _The following lines were written by a soldier of the United States army while under restriction and confinement as a general prisoner at Alcatraz Island, California. There has been a dread about this military citadel which is only equalled in the regular army by the Philippine prison of Bilibid. Both are looked on as dark hell-hole dungeons for the regular soldier._ By An Alcatraz Prisoner Only a short ride from ’Frisco, On a rock resting out in the sea; A dungeon for “soldier convicts—” The home of the U. S. D. B. There we lay on our bed of hard metal, And think of our life among men, Ever wishing our life was far distant, Or could be lived over again. The death-colored chambers of madness, Where all rights are evermore gone; Oh, is there no chance for freedom, Will we never again see the dawn? To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon, Where the eyes of mankind are blind; To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread, Eternally losing your mind. So, hear the cries from the “big-house,” From the souls who go down in the strife, Where souls are evermore striving And thrown by the wayside of life. Oh, list to the cry from the inmates; Assist in this hour that is blue, For the ones who are good and the ones who are bad Are as good or as bad as you. * * * * * _I was born in the spring, I died in the fall,_ _But I won’t tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul._ * * * * * Dusty Holden’s Filosophy This life is but a game of cards, Which every one must learn. Each shuffles, deals and cuts the deck And then a trump does turn; Some show up a high card, While others make it low, And many turn no cards at all— In fact, they cannot show. When hearts are up, we play for love And pleasure rules the hour, Each day goes pleasantly along, In sunshine’s rosy bower. When diamonds chance to crown the pack, That’s when men stake their gold, And thousands then are lost and won, By gamblers, young and old.