A traveler in the Tennessee mountains sought refuge one evening at a wayside cabin. He had traveled all one chill, April day and was cold, hungry and footsore. With true mountain hospitality the old mountaineer invited him to supper, and insisted that he spend the night. The host made him comfortable before a huge open fireplace, and set a jug of mountain dew beside his chair. Also introduced him to his eighteen-year-old daughter, who was the only other occupant of the cabin, unless we may include four lank hounds stretched before the fireplace. The old man hastened out to look after his chores and the girl busied herself in the kitchen. The cabin was typical of the region, having two rooms, one containing a bed and two chairs, and the other serving as kitchen and dining room. The traveler, left to himself, took three or four heavy shots of the moonshine and soon forgot his weariness and the chill of the April day. He divested himself of his shoes, settled himself with a sigh of content, and steamed his sopping feet in the glow of the fire. Shortly one of the hounds raised his head, languidly, and sniffed suspiciously. He scrambled to his feet, howled mournfully and dived beneath the bed, the others following him as if they had gone crazy. A piteous whining and snarling issued from under the bed for several minutes, and the traveler became alarmed. The dogs must be mad. He arose and opened the door, and the dogs shot from under the bed, and through the open door. Each departed, howling as if St. Nick was after him. It was puzzling to say the least. The comely daughter entered the room shortly, and the traveler addressed her as follows: “What is the matter with those dogs?” he inquired. “I dunno,” she replied, “Lessem one uv ’em brung somepin dead indoors. Dad allus kicks hell out’en the whole passell uv them when they do thet.” * * * * * The Young Gringo _Havana’s tropical sunshine, coupled with a few jolts of “Ron Bacardi Superior,” hath driven ye old cap’n to lyrical lines of lisping lingo. So I sit me down on my cane bottom chair with pencil stub in hand to transcribe that famous Cholo rhyme, “The Young Gringo.” The poem has to do with the proper actions of Americans in Cuba, and other tropical countries._ The first you must learn is to listen, not speak, For the one thing we hate is a youngster with cheek, Shut up from the first; be attentive and meek When you’re next to a hardened old gringo. And now, from the start, don’t mistakenly think, That to be a good sport you must gamble and drink, And play the darn fool: to rise up—not sink— Is the motto of every right gringo. But, if you do gamble and never can win, Don’t damn at the dice-box, and kick up a din, But keep your tongue silent, and switch on a grin, And pay up your debts like a gringo.