Old Indiany, 'course we know Is first, and best, and _most_, also, Of _all_ the States' whole forty-four:-- She's first in ever'thing, that's shore!-- And _best_ in ever'way as yet Made known to man; and you kin bet She's _most_, because she won't confess She ever was, or will be, _less_! And yet, fer all her proud array Of sons, how many gits away!-- No doubt about her bein' _great_ But, fellers, she's a leaky State! And them that boasts the most about Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out. Law! jes' to think of all you boys 'Way over here in Illinoise A-celebratin', like ye air, Old Indiany, 'way back there In the dark ages, so to speak, A-prayin' for ye once a week And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you From comin', like you ort to do. You're all a-lookin' well, and like You wasn't "sidin' up the pike," As the tramp-shoemaker said When "he sacked the boss and shed The blame town, to hunt fer one Where they didn't work fer fun!" Lookin' _extry_ well, I'd say, Your old home so fur away.-- Maybe, though, like the old jour., Fun hain't all yer workin' fer. So you've found a job that pays Better than in them old days You was on _The Weekly Press_, Heppin' run things, more er less; Er a-learnin' telegraph Operatin', with a half Notion of the tinner's trade, Er the dusty man's that laid Out designs on marble and Hacked out little lambs by hand, And chewed fine-cut as he wrought, "Shapin' from his bitter thought" Some squshed mutterings to say,-- "Yes, hard work, and porer pay!" Er you'd kind o' thought the far- Gazin' kuss that owned a car And took pictures in it, had Jes' the snap you wanted--bad! And you even wondered why He kep' foolin' with his sky- Light the same on shiny days As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.) Wondered what strange things was hid In there when he shet the door And smelt like a burnt drug store Next some orchard-trees, i swan! With whole roasted apples on! That's why Ade is, here of late, Buyin' in the dear old State,-- So's to cut it up in plots Of both town and country lots. ABE MARTIN Abe Martin!--dad-burn his old picture! P'tends he's a Brown County fixture-- A kind of a comical mixture Of hoss-sense and no sense at all! His mouth, like his pipe, 's allus goin', And his thoughts, like his whiskers, is flowin', And what he don't know ain't wuth knowin'-- From Genesis clean to baseball! The artist, Kin Hubbard, 's so keerless He draws Abe most eyeless and earless, But he's never yet pictured him cheerless Er with fun 'at he tries to conceal,-- Whuther onto the fence er clean over A-rootin' up ragweed er clover, Skeert stiff at some "Rambler" er "Rover" Er newfangled automo_beel_!