“Be that word our sign of parting, pudding!” then I shrieked, upstarting, “Get thee back――get off my stomach, roll again upon the floor!” Thus I struggled, loudly screaming, till I found I had been dreaming, Dreaming like a famous poet once had dreamt in days of yore; But although ’twas like the poet’s dream he dreamt in days of yore, May I dream it nevermore! _Detroit Free Press_ Christmas Number, 1884. ―――――――― The major of a Georgian regiment, writing to the United States Treasurer, said, “I send to you for redemption a fragment of a five dollar bill, the rest of which was destroyed under strangely curious circumstances. I dropped it into my pocket in company with some loose tobacco, and, after supper, taking a quid, I chewed money and tobacco, leaving scraps of the bill and fragments of tobacco in my pocket. When I discovered the _sad catastrophe_ I went for the masticated quid, but all traces of the money had vanished, and, ‘like the baseless fabric of a dream, left not a wreck behind.’” “Vainly was I bending, crooking, and with both my eyes a-looking, Looking for my lost spondulic, like the Pleiad lost of yore; Looking for the well-chewn fragment which I lost the night before; Only this, and nothing more.” “Spuds,” quoth I, “for thee I pineth, Gone to where the woodbine twineth; Gone, departed, doomed, and fated, Gone to fragments dessicated; Gone, as I’ve already stated, Where thy worth no longer shineth, I follow――thou art gone before.” ―――――――― NOTHING MORE. The ass stood by the stable door, The sweepings of the stable floor―― Some scantled, musty, broken straw―― He munched, and munched, and――nothing more. Yon politician struts the floor, His speech is gemmed with pot-house lore, His goose essays the eagles soar: Words, only words, and――nothing more. The preacher, dear, good, pious bore, Proves all the prophets once foresaw, Knows what the future has in store, Knows what he――thinks, and――nothing more. The lawyer quotes you score on score Of great authorities in law To prove your case without a flaw; He gains his――fee, and nothing more. The doctor knows you to the core, Apt with each fibre, nerve and pore; Can catch you from Death’s greedy maw, He “bleeds” you well, and――nothing more. The ass still stands beside the door, And still is munching as before, Gown, book, and pill, are broken straw; He’s the same ass, and――nothing more. ANONYMOUS. ―――――――― HER “PA’S” DOG.