Hail the complex mechanism, full of cranks and wires and wheels, Fed by graft and loot and patronage, as noiselessly it reels. Press the button, pull the lever, clickety-click, and set the vogue For the latest thing in statesmen or the newest kind of rogue. Who's the man behind the throttle? Who's the Engineer unseen? "Ask me nothin'! Ask me nothin'!" clicks that wizard, the Machine. [Footnote 4: From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1905, by Fox, Duffield & Co.] OMAR IN THE KLONDYKE BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND "This Omar seems a decent chap," said Flapjack Dick one night, When he had read my copy through and then blown out the light. "I ain't much stuck on poetry, because I runs to news, But I appreciates a man that loves his glass of booze. "And Omar here likes a good red wine, although he's pretty mum; On liquors, which is better yet, like whisky, gin, or rum; Perhaps his missus won't allow him things like that to touch, And he doesn't like to own it. Well, I don't blame Omar much. "Then I likes a man what's partial to the ladies, young or old, And Omar seems to seek 'em much as me and you seek gold; I only hope for his sake that his wife don't learn his game Or she'll put a chain on Omar, and that would be a shame. "His language is some florid, but I guess it is the style Of them writer chaps that studies and burns the midnight ile; He tells us he's no chicken; so I guess he knows what's best, And can hold his own with Shakespeare, Waukeen Miller, and the rest. "But I hope he ain't a thinkin' of a trip to this yere camp, For our dancin' girls is ancient, and our liquor's somewhat damp By doctorin' with water, and we ain't got wine at all, Though I had a drop of porter--but that was back last fall. "And he mightn't like our manners, and he mightn't like the smell Which is half the charm of Dawson; and he mightn't live to tell Of the acres of wild roses that grows on every street; And he mightn't like the winter, or he mightn't like the heat. "So I guess it's best for Omar for to stay right where he is, And gallivant with Tottie, or with Flossie, or with Liz; And fill himself with claret, and, although it ain't like beer, I wish he'd send a bottle--just one bottle--to us here." THE HAPPY LAND[5] BY FRANK ROE BATCHELDER In the Land of Steady Incomes, Where they get their ten per cent., There is never need to worry As to how to pay the rent; There they never dodge the grocer, And in winter never freeze, In the Land of Steady Incomes, Where the dollars grow on trees.