[Illustration: “WHEN PA IS SICK, IT’S SOMETHIN’ FIERCE”] _WHEN MA IS SICK_ When ma is sick, She pegs away; She’s quiet, though, Not much t’ say. She goes right on A-doin’ things, An’ sometimes laughs, Er even sings. She says she don’t Feel extry well, But then it’s just A kind o’ spell; She’ll be all right To-morrow, sure. A good old sleep Will be the cure. An’ pa he sniffs, An’ makes no kick, Fer women-folks Is always sick. An’ ma she smiles, Lets on she’s glad.-- When ma is sick, It ain’t s’ bad. [Illustration: “WHEN MA IS SICK, IT AIN’T S’ BAD”] [Illustration: HORACE.--] “I SING OF MYSELF” (An ode by Horace.--Book II, Ode 20) BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER Before I end this glorious batch Of deathless verses, friend Mæcenas, I’ve something still to add, to snatch One laurel more to share between us. (I mention all of this to no man Except perhaps a friend--or Roman.) Now that my time has come to die (Within a score or two of years), I wish to have it known that I Shall gladly leave this “vale of tears,” Because (and how my friends will chortle!) I shall be more than just immortal. Into the clear and boundless air I shall ascend with sounding pinions. Shouting a buoyant “I don’t care,” Laughing at kings and their dominions. And folks will say (how well you know it!), “Q. Flaccus? Ah, he _was_ a poet!” My wings shall sprout,--why, even now I feel all creepy and absurd-like,-- My skin is roughening somehow, My legs are positively birdlike. And see, sure as I’m growing older, Feathers and quills on either shoulder! And I shall fly about as long As I’ve the slightest inclination, A veritable Bird of Song Without a local habitation. Like Icarus, I’ll travel surely And (need I say it?) more securely. From where the Dacian hides in shame To where the river Rhone runs muddy, All men will celebrate my name; My works will constitute a study. I shall be loved by people pat in The ways of elementary Latin. Then let there be no dirge for me, No petty grief or lamentation. Why weep for one who’s sure to be A joy and honor to creation? Ah, you’re a lucky man, by Venus! To have a friend like _me_, Mæcenas. NEWPORT NOTE THE LATEST SENSATION IN SMART SOCIETY “Mrs. Algy Flint gave an informal turkey-trot last evening at ‘On the Rocks,’ her palace in Newport. Prizes were awarded to the best dancers. The first prize (an Owen Johnson Salamander fire-screen--for stenographers and débutantes) was won by Miss Dolly Marble, for a novel little dance entitled ‘The Tangorilla.’ The second prize (a Pankhurst forcible feeder--for infants and invalids) was awarded to Bertie Stone, her clever and light-footed partner.” [Illustration: