Though to die as I should in the future, To drop in the streets some day, Unknown, unwept and forgotten, After you passed me away. Perhaps the blood of the Savior, Can wash my garments clean, Perchance I may drift on the water, That flows in the pastures green. Perchance we may meet in heaven, And walk in the street above, With nothing to grieve us or part us, Since our sinning was all through love. God says, love one another, And down to the depths of Hell, Well he sent the soul of a woman, Because she loved—and fell. And so in the moon-light he found her, Or found her beautiful clay, Lifeless and pallid as marble, For the spirit had flown away. The farewell words she had written, She held to her cold white breast, And the buried blade of a dagger, Told how she had gone to rest. * * * * * To a Mountain Rat By Frank B. Lindeman. Yes I reckon God made ye He’s blamed for rattlesnakes, And porcupines and woodchucks, And if they ain’t mistakes Ye’re a crowin’ example Of carelessness divine, To nigh the danger line. Yer winkless eye in innocence Hides cunnin’ cussedness, And yer skin is full to bustin’ With a longin’ to possess All things that don’t belong to you, But when all’s said and done There’s things on earth ye’ve failed to steal, And reputation’s one. * * * * * The real John Barleycorn of older days is gone, but not forgotten. Those of us who knew him best, and loved him most, Stuck with him ’til the last drop. * * * * * Pretty (looking over the new theatre down-town)—What do you think of the excavation? Witty—Oh, it’s pretty good as a whole. * * * * * The Bum and the Farmer’s Son