I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific man to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him. Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent. Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow. LOST CHORDS BY EUGENE FIELD One autumn eve, when soft the breeze Came sweeping through the lattice wide, I sat me down at organ side And poured my soul upon the keys. It was, perhaps by heaven's design, That from my half unconscious touch, There swept a passing chord of such Sweet harmony, it seemed divine. In one soft tone it seemed to say The sweetest words I ever heard, Then like a truant forest bird, It soared from me to heaven away. Last eve, I sat at window whence I sought the spot where erst had stood A cord--a cord of hick'ry wood, Piled up against the back yard fence.