“_Frozen Tears_,” by P. North Poole. Returning, after years spent in the far north, John Snow’s wife gives him a cold welcome. He finds that Eskimo maidens may have cold feet, but warm hearts. A tale of polar bears, whale blubber, seal blubber and plain blubber. Don’t fail to read “_Way Down Yeast_,” by Holmes Brewer, in our next issue. Mr. Brewer’s stories are as funny as a barrel of monkey wrenches; his wit as spontaneous as a fire sale in Goldstein’s clothing store. And as unique as a drink of real whiskey. “_Down in the Deep_,” by Professor U. Drinkwater. A scientific article on the peculiarities of the Zoanatharia actina, mesembryanthemum, tealia crassicornis and other anemones. Too deep for any one but a highbrow to wade through. “_Lucy’s Looseness_,” by E. Strong Onion. A story with a smile, some tears, and seeming to breathe throughout, the fragrance of old Bermuda. * * * * * The Way with Men By Warford Frederick. A sweet Conceit Is its own excuse, I think, don’t you? I hope you do. Two neat, Small feet And a shoestring loose. I bend, don’t you, Before that shoe? One glance at the shoe and two at the silk, And an ankle showing as white as milk; And I tie a knot that will slip again! For that is ever the way with men. * * * * * It is a rare man, girls, who shakes the furnace as he shakes his shoulders. * * * * * Verily much Mazuma goeth over the bar the cash register knoweth not of. * * * * * There are lots of men who treat tomorrow and treat yesterday, but never treat today. _Jest Jokes and Jingles_ That Girl You Lost! Long though a man recalls the achievements of his life, yet it is quite often the little things he failed to achieve that linger longest in his memory; even after he has forgotten her name and whether her eyes were brown or blue. * * * * * The Garbage Blues _Rocks in the mountains,_ _Fish in the sea,_ _A garbage man’s daughter_ _Made a dump out of me._ * * * * * Remorse Those dry martinis were too much for me. Last night at twelve I felt immense, Today, I feel like thirty cents. But it is a poor time for mirth and laughter, The cold, gray dawn of the morning after. * * * * * _I went to a dance with a girl named Nora,_ _We danced and we danced on the floor-a,_ _I heard a rip, and I knew by chance_ _That Nora had lost her desire to dance._ * * * * * A Modern Man’s Prayer Oh, please, give me a woman who can make real beer. * * * * * It’s all right to shoot the bull provided you don’t give a bum steer.