She is de ver' mos' smartes' gairl Dat I am evere know, I'm fin' dis out, de teacher, he Is tol' me dat is so; She is so smart dat she say t'ings I am no understan', She is know more dan any one Dat leeve on ol' Ste. Anne. De Gradual Commence is hol' Down at de gr'ad beeg hall, W'ere plaintee peopl' can gat seat For dem to see it all. De School Board wid dere presi_dent_, Dey sit opon front row, Dey look so stiff an' dignify, For w'at I am not know. De classe dat mak' de "gradual" Dey're on de stage, you see, In semi-cirque dat face de peop', Some scare as dey can be; Den wan of dem dey all mak' spe'k, Affer de nodder's t'roo, Dis tak' dem 'bout t'ree hour an' half De hull t'ing for to do. Ma Madeline she is all feex op, Mos' beautiful to see, In nice w'ite drass, my wife he buy Overe to Kankakee. An' when she rise to mak' de spe'k How smart she look on face, Dey all expec' somet'ing dey hear, Dere's hush fall on de place. She tell us how to mak' de leeve, How raise beeg familee; She tell it all so smood an' plain Dat you can't help but see; An' how she learn her all of dat Ees more dan I can say, But she is know it, for she talk In smartes' kind of way. W'en all is t'roo de presi_dent_ De sheepskin he geeve 'way; Dey're all nice print opon dem, An' dis is w'at dey say: "To dem dat is concern' wid dese Pres_ents_ you onderstan' De h'owner dese; is gradual At High School on Ste. Anne." An' now dat she is gradual She ees know all about De world an' how to mak' it run From inside to de out; For dis is one de primere t'ings W'at she is learn, you see, Dat long beeg word I can pronounce, It's call philosophee. An' you can' blame me if I am Ver' proud an' puff op so, To hav' a daughter like dis wan Dat's everyt'ing she know. No wonder dat I gat beeg head, My hat's too small, dey say-- Ma leddle daughter Madeline Is gradual to-day. ABOU BEN BUTLER BY JOHN PAUL Abou, Ben Butler (may his tribe be less!) Awoke one night from a deep bottledness, And saw, by the rich radiance of the moon, Which shone and shimmered like a silver spoon, A stranger writing on a golden slate (Exceeding store had Ben of spoons and plate), And to the stranger in his tent he said: "Your little game?" The stranger turned his head, And, with a look made all of innocence, Replied: "I write the name of Presidents." "And is mine one?" "Not if this court doth know Itself," replied the stranger. Ben said, "Oh!" And "Ah!" but spoke again: "Just name your price To write me up as one that may be Vice."