I pass over all the local news which appeared in the “Murderers’ Home Journal.” Such announcements as “John, the Greek, has come back for nineteen years—foolish John!” “Bill Newfeldt caught a mouse in his sock last night—poor thing!” Such as the above, and the chronicled fact that Doctor Sam’s office hours in the morning were from twelve A.M. to twelve P.M., and in the afternoon from twelve P.M. to twelve A.M. (in spite of this he had no “patients”), or a brilliantly worded “ad” advising the reader to take “Molineux’s Bromo-Seltzer”; all these were replete with absorbing interest to us, but not to you. It was when the “divine afflatus” came upon us, as had the influenza the month previous—we all had it—that you might be interested. Many and varied were the verses that deluged the editorial sanctum; jingles, triolets, lyrics, epigrams, and of course the very first offered was—there, you have guessed it—“Spring.” I give it just as it came to me, leaving it for you to decide whether it be humorous or pitiful. SPRING IN THE DEATH-CHAMBER. Sweet Spring is here, and we all know it too, But not, alas, as outside poets do. Here are no birds, or flowers, or murmuring stream, Our Spring arrives—when they turn off the steam. This is a touching song by some true lover of dumb animals, written upon an occasion when one of them insisted upon sharing his couch: MY RAT. I love my rat so tenderly, He is so gentle, don’t you see? He guards my slumbers every night, To keep me from the slightest fright. No lions or ferocious bears Can steal upon me unawares, For there is such a noise in here ’Twould fill their cruel hearts with fear. I love my rat, if he should die Great tears of anguish I would cry. Here is a particularly admired effort. It appealed to every member of our community on account of its spirited and militant sentiment. They say I wrote it. Undoubtedly it will appear in evidence against me in case of a new trial—hearsay evidence is “great stuff”: DAWN. When morning comes, and Joe pounds on the bar, Calling me back from happy dreamland far; Although “they say” that two were killed by me, How I regret I cannot make it _three_! The following admirable pastoral was written by a gentleman with a longing for the delights of rural life—or life of any other kind: MY ONION. I love to see my onion grow And send its shoots up in the air. It is a homely plant, I know, But yet its stalks are green and fair.