Now, of all our mortal actors here upon this earthly stage, The contractors have the hardest parts to play, I will engage; Specially in bran-new cities, just between the knead and bake, And where all the population are severely on the make. What between the Common Council, and the more uncommon sort, Politicians, Press, and preachers, Scroper fell uncommon short. All of such as come a-plummin’ when a puddin’s to be had; All against his best contractin’ counteractin’ mighty bad. Therefore when this edificial had got up his edifice, All who’d not been edifishing with him soon got up a hiss; Said the stuff upon the buildin’ was the worst that could be had, Likewise called the architexture architechnically bad. So it came one solemn evenin’ in a Presbyterian rain Mr. Scroper all in silence gently took the Northern train; All he left was one small message to a friend who shared his home,— _When the darned affair blows over, telegraph for me to come_. So he sat one summer mornin’, far away in Montreal, Musin’ on his recent patrons, while at heart he darned ’em all, When there came a little letter datin’ from his recent home,— “_All the thing is quite blown over, back again we bid you come_. “_For last night we had a tempest,—while the mighty thunder rang,_ _Up there came a real guster, which blew down the whole shebang._ (_Shebang_’s a word from Hebrew, meanin’ Seven, sayeth Krupp, And applied to any shanty where they play at seven-up.) “_Truly it was well blown over all to splinders in the night,_ _And the winds of heaven are blowing o’er the ruins as I write._” Gentlemen, the story’s over. It would last for many a day If it told of every buildin’ built upon the swindlin’ lay. THAT INTERESTIN’ BOY HE sat upon the window-sill and jingled ninety cents. There came along another boy, who said, “How are you, Pence? You’re goin’ out a-Christmassin’, I guess, among the Dutch, to buy some gifts.” The other spoke: “No—not exactly much. I am in luck, this year, I am. I haven’t any bills. My sister’s sick, and can’t expect no presents but her pills. My brother Ben’s in Canada, away upon the wing. Of course, you know he can’t suppose I’ll buy him anything. My mother pulled my hair, last night, until she made me squall. Of course she knows that she’s gone up for anything at all.” “But there’s your father,” said his friend. “Well,—yes—I really thought that I was stuck on the old man, and that he had me caught, and I was kinder looking round to hunt him up a pipe; but then, this very mornin’ he hit me such a wipe! That fixed his Christmas goose for him, and took away his joy. Now all this money’s goin’ to a good and clever boy, to buy him lots of pea-nuts and candy, I’ll engage—with caramels; and that good boy is just my size and age.” MISS MILES, THE TELEGRAPH GIRL