There must be somethin' in it for he never win afore, An' when he tole the crowd about the humpback, how they swore! For every sport allows it is a losin' game to buck Agin the science of a man who's teched a hump f'r luck; An' there is no denyin' luck was nowhere in it when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do The thing that luck apparrently intended f'r me to; Cats, funerils, cripples, beggars have I treated with regard, An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again; You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten! So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow That luck, for luck, agin a hump ain't nowhere in it now! An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain; For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when Salty teched a humpback and win out ten! HIS QUEEN. Our gifted and genial friend, Mr. William J. Florence, the comedian, takes to verses as naturally as a canvas-back duck takes to celery sauce. As a balladist he has few equals and no superiors, and when it comes to weaving compliments to the gentler sex he is without a peer. We find in the New York Mirror the latest verses from Mr. Florence's pen; they are entitled "Pasadene," and the first stanza flows in this wise: I've journeyed East, I've journeyed West, And fair Italia's fields I've seen; But I declare None can compare With thee, my rose-crowned Pasadene. Following this introduction come five stanzas heaping even more glowing compliments upon this Miss Pasadene--whoever she may be--we know her not. They are handsome compliments, beautifully phrased, yet they give us the heartache, for we know Mrs. Florence, and it grieves us to see her husband dribbling away his superb intellect in penning verses to other women. Yet we think we understand it all; these poets have a pretty way of hymning the virtues of their wives under divers aliases. So, catching the afflatus of the genial actor-poet's muse, we would answer: Come, now, who is this Pasadene That such a whirl of praises warrant? And is a rose Her only clo'es? Oh, fie upon you, Billy Florence! Ah, no; that's your poetic way Of turning loose your rhythmic torrents-- This Pasadene Is not your queen-- We know you know we know it, Florence! So sing your songs of women folks-- We'll read without the least abhorrence, Because we know Through weal and woe Your queen is Mrs. Billy Florence! ALASKAN BALLADRY.--III. (Skans in Love.) I am like the wretched seal Wounded by a barbed device-- Helpless fellow! how I bellow, Floundering on the jagged ice!