The lawn-mower is quite a play thing for the city-bred man, but in the interest of humanity he ought to be vaccinated against the back ache. "When the 'Phone Bell Rings." It's no difference what you're doing, Whether you're asleep or ain't, When the 'phone begins pursuing It will catch you,--no complaint! For its call is strong and steady, And it always answer brings, For you hurry with your "ready!" When the 'phone bell rings! O, it interrupts your vision With its long, unceasing howl; It dispels your dreams elysian With insistence fresh and foul! O, it summons you at meal-times With a joy that stays and clings, Till you swear it's always de'il-times When the 'phone bell rings! It's no matter where you're straying,-- In the garden, barn or bed, There's no time to spend in praying. Or in playing, quick or dead; And if Gabriel "in that morning" Wants a good old trump that swings, Just let "central" sound his warning While the 'phone bells rings! The Negro's Warning. Doan't yuh grumble, brudder! Doan't yuh nebber doubt it, Debbil gwine ter git yuh 'Foh yuh think erbout it! Put yuh in de iurn-works Whar de sinnah weeps, Loadin' up de injines Shovelin' coal fer keeps! The Kingbolt Philosopher. "I've often noticed," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he slowly filled his Missouri meerschaum with Virginia twist,--"I've offen noticed thet nerve is the most vallyble asset in the credit items of human life. The pore man thet's got a plenty of it is an uncrowned king with pears's an' di'monds at his command, but the king thet lacks it will soon be uncrowned too. When a rich man er a famous man gits down in the mouth onct an' loses his nerve, it's all day with him in a minnet, an' a rope or a six-shooter ginerally winds him up. But if a feller hangs on to his nerve, he is alright fer the sights and scenes of this world an' he needn't be nussin' any worries 'bout the next one." "Hands Around, My Honey." Sparrow on the wagon-shed, Chirping with a will; Robin in the cherry-tree Warblin' fit to kill! Every thing's rejoicin', Hidin' of the wrong,-- So hands around, my honey, And we'll join the song! Mock-bird on the chimney top,-- How that rascal mocks,-- Spillin' songs of melody, From his music-box! Over all the live-long place All the pleasures throng, So hands around, my honey, And we'll join the song! The Spirit of Compromise. "I done heah dat de dimmycrats kinder comp'omised at de St. Looey convention meetin'," said old Black Mose. "I tell you, man, dat com'p'omisin' bis'ness am a great thing, suah! My ole woman en' me hez quahled en' fit en' fussed erroun' fer nigh fohty yeahs ober wheddah I should pack in de watah er chop de wood, en' we fin'ly comp'omised de mattah by hur a doin ob 'em bofe!" Best of All.