TWO PORTRAITS Wild hair flying, in a matted maze, Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze; Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze, As o'er the keno board boldly he plays. --That's Texas Bill. Wild hair flying, in a matted maze, Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze; Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze, As o'er the keyboard boldly he plays. --That's Paderewski. A CONTRIBUTION There came unto ye editor A poet, pale and wan, And at the table sate him down, A roll within his hand. Ye editor accepted it, And thanked his lucky fates; Ye poet had to yield it up To a king full on eights. THE OLD FARM Just now when the whitening blossoms flare On the apple trees and the growing grass Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air; With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass Of the old farm I am dreaming, And softly smiling, seeming To see the bright sun beaming Upon the old home farm. And when I think how we milked the cows, And hauled the hay from the meadows low; And walked the furrows behind the plows, And chopped the cotton to make it grow I'd much rather be here dreaming And smiling, only seeming To see the hot sun gleaming Upon the old home farm. VANITY A Poet sang so wondrous sweet That toiling thousands paused and listened long; So lofty, strong and noble were his themes, It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song. He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man, And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears; Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean, And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears. The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound, Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved; And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved. THE LULLABY BOY The lullaby boy to the same old tune Who abandons his drum and toys For the purpose of dying in early June Is the kind the public enjoys. But, just for a change, please sing us a song, Of the sore-toed boy that's fly, And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad, And positively will not die. CHANSON DE BOHÊME _Lives of great men all remind us Rose is red and violet's blue; Johnny's got his gun behind us 'Cause the lamb loved Mary too._ --Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town." I'd rather write this, as bad as it is Than be Will Shakespeare's shade; I'd rather be known as an F. F. V. Than in Mount Vernon laid. I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy Than to head Booth's old programme; I'd rather be special for the New York _World_ Than to lie with Abraham.