I like the good old-fashioned way-- A handshake or a slap,-- The boys who jab your ribs and say "You're all right, Bill, Old Chap!" I like the lad who sees you first And always shouts your name,-- Who, tho your luck be at its worst, Says--"Cheer up, Bill! Be game!" I like the chum who's always glad To soothe you when you're ill,-- Who, when he finds you broke and sad, Says--"Here's a Dollar, Bill!" I'd like to grab him by the throat And hold his mouth tight shut,-- Who, questioned, makes you out the goat-- "Who? Bill? He's all right, _but_--!" NATURE'S STUDIO Go where the winds keep vigil o'er the trees, Rocking the tender saplings in the breeze; Go where the sunbeams play on rill and stream, Making the purling waters all agleam; Go where the birds rehearse their songs and trills In cool retreats, led by the Whippoorwills; Go where the bees, midst clover blooms, indulge Their honey habit till their bellies bulge; Go where the trout, in alder-arbored brooks, Abate their hunger but eschew the hooks; Go where the flowers, by fairy weavers spun, Pour out their grateful incense to the Sun; Go where the deer in secret nooks disport And Nature, clad in verdure, holds her Court; Go where--nay, stay! Yonder the artist stands, With brush and prismy palette in her hands, Before her easel, where the canvas seems A masterpiece in wondrous color schemes. What artistry! What fascinating views Dame Nature paints! Behold the rainbow hues That tint the dainty flowers and make the rose Blush to its sepals when it seeks repose; That tinge the moors and fields and turquoise sky, And stain the Autumn leaves with crimson dye! So tarry here, where moss and bluebells grow Upon the floor of Nature's Studio! PICARDY With heads uncovered and with cautious tread Approach ye here! where lie our martyred dead In graves unmarked, here, there and everywhere: So lest, ashamed, ye trample them, beware! AMERICA'S PRAYER God bless our Allies! damn the Huns! And consecrate our swords and guns! EPILOGUE They say that a stitch that is timely saves nine: You haven't your needle? O, well then, take mine; And all my Dream Outfit--my pipe and my dope! I've smoked my last hemp _to the end of my rope_. End of Project Gutenberg's The Bee's Bayonet, by Edwin Alfred Watrous