“Well, there’s nothing I can do till Warren comes home,” said Helen as she hung up the receiver and went out in the back yard to dig a hole to bury the neighbor’s bull dog which Pussy Purr-mew had just dragged in the house. “I wish the dear thing wouldn’t bring home all the dogs she kills,” sighed Helen, “but I suppose she wants to show me what a good fighter she is.” After burying the dog, Helen went back to the house and picking up the latest issue of Naughty Stories, soon was so interested that she did not hear the voices of the men at the front door when they brought Warren home from the office, drunk, and dumped him on the front porch, where he lay until she stumbled over him an hour later. By this time Warren was sober enough to eat supper, which he did in a silence only broken when he inhaled the soup and drank his coffee. “Why don’t you talk to me?” Helen demanded toward the end of the meal. “Don’t sit there like a dummy and never say a word. Men are such brutes!” And throwing herself behind the kitchen stove she wept bitterly. * * * * * Too Fast! The Victor Dog sat on a talking machine and the record ran so fast, that the dog’s head caught up with his tail, and he didn’t have room to pass “His Master’s Voice.” * * * * * _Olaf had a little dog,_ _’Twas free from fleas and sins;_ _One day it squeezed right through the fence,_ _And barked—its little shins._ —_Shakespeare._ * * * * * Sweet Dada My girl’s ears are so large that if you were to look at her from the back you would swear she was a loving cup. * * * * * As thou hast made thy bed, why lie about it? _Smokehouse Poetry_ _In the April issue Smokehouse Poetry fans will be treated to an old classic, “Absolution,” by Nesbit._ _“But the Priest’s duty bade him seek her out_ _And say, ‘My child, why dost thou sit apart?_ _Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt?_ _Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart.’”_ * * * _And as the dim east brightened, slowly ceased_ _The wild devotion that had filled the priest—_ _And with full sunlight he sprang up—a man!_ * * * _“Oh, lips so quiet, eyes that will not see!_ _Oh, clinging hands that not again will cling!_ _This last poor sin may well be pardoned thee,_ _Since for the right’s sake thou hast done this thing.”_ * * * * * * * * Night After Night Night after night the cards were fairly shuffled And fairly dealt, but still I got no hand. The morning came, but I with mind unruffled Did simply say, “I do not understand.” Life is a game of whist; from unseen sources The cards are shuffled and the hands are dealt. Vain are our efforts to control the forces Which though unseen are no less strongly felt.