They say the rose would smell as If called by any other name, And so to make my joy complete; A rose and onion are the same. For you may call it what you like, By any name that’s long or small, And though you smell all day and night, The onion has no smell at all. This is wilful peevishness: the protest of some professional kicker: MY SOCKS. My feet are number seven, but the law says I must wear A pair of socks that are five sizes small; That’s why I cry aloud and dance and at the keepers swear, And on the State the wrath of Heaven call. I wish the Sheriff, Governor, the Judge and President And the Jury were all here behind the locks; And that ministers of justice would their living long prevent, For my toes are packed like sardines in a box. From one of those detestable individuals who wants everything: THE BARBER. The barber with his little chair comes every Saturday, And after he has shaved us all, he vanishes away. And once a month he cuts our hair; oh, what an hour of pride! He cuts so much and well that we all want to go outside. But when I asked the keeper kind (My, I was awful bold!), “No, no,” he said, “just see your head, I fear you would catch cold.” SULKY ROLIE. I go to Sing Sing public school, Where naughty boys are sometimes sent, Receiving as a general rule A goodly share of punishment. I try so hard to do what’s right, I study long and never play; Why then have I this wretched plight That they should “keep me in” all day? It is natural for a man to strive for perpetual success; but we, who are to lose our lives, should bear lesser misfortunes with greater fortitude than is expressed by this poet. The editor is not in sympathy with his contributor: CHESS. When I play chess with other boys, It’s one of all my dearest joys To hear them rant and storm and tear, If by my skilfulness and care They should the losers be. Sometimes I am not feeling well, Since I the “honest truth” must tell, And though you would not think they’d dare, I’m walloped well. Gosh! how I swear! If they should checkmate me. In an early issue a gem of an epigram appeared, and straightway epigrams became the mode—we all affected them. The vogue was hard while it lasted. A dozen times a day I was assured over the wireless telephone (Nature’s) that Bill or Mike or another had a “bird” for the next issue. Here are some of them.