Superintindint wuz Flannigan; Boss of the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on agin. That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan He writ tin pages--did Finnigin. An' he tould jist how the smash occurred-- Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on agin. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-- Had more idjucation--had Flannigan; An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin agin! Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid--did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole moonth's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan-- Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long agin." Wan da-ay on the siction of Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail give way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyears went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan," An' he winked at McGorrigan As married a Finnigin. He wus shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been agin, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night-- Bilin' down his repoort, wuz Finnigin. An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off agin, on agin, Gone agin.--Finnigin." FOOTNOTE: [68] By permission of the author. GAVROCHE AND THE ELEPHANT[69] VICTOR HUGO [A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon Bonaparte erected in 1823.] The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The child--a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day; no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves--but he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart. One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head.