Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann; An' she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An' pours in somepin' 'at's good and sweet, An' nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow, In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It's custard pie, first thing you know! An' nen she'll say: "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play!-- Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run! Er I cain't git no cookin' done!" When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad, An' says folks got to walk the chalk When _she's_ around, er wisht they had, I play out on our porch an' talk To th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn; An' he says "_Whew!_" an' nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes An' sniffs all round an' says,--"I swawn! Ef my old nose don't tell me lies, It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!" An' nen _he'll_ say,-- "'Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run! Er _she_ cain't git no cookin' done!'" Wunst our hired girl, one time when she Got the supper, an' we all et, An' it was night, an' Ma an' me An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,-- An' nen when we come home, an' see A light in the kitchen-door, an' we Heerd a maccordeum, Pa says "Lan'- O'-Gracious! who can _her_ beau be?" An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin' corn fer the Raggedy Man! _Better_ say "Clear out o' the way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take the hint, an' run, Child; run! Er we cain't git no _courtin'_ done!" THE REASON BY IRONQUILL Says John last night: "William, by grab! I'm beat To know why stolen kisses Taste so sweet." Says William: "Sho! That's easily explained-- It's 'cause they're _syrup_- titiously obtained." * * * * * O cruel thought! O words of cruel might! The coroner He sat on John that night. ONCL' ANTOINE ON 'CHANGE BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY (_Antoine Boisvert, Raconteur._) I've jus' com' from Chicago town, A seein' all de sights From stockyard to de ballet gairl, All drass' in spangled tights. But all de worstes' nonsens' T'roo vich I got to wade, I t'ink de t'ing dat gats de cake Ees place called Board of Trade. I heard moch talk about dem chap Dey call de Bull an' Bear, Dat play aroun' with price of stock An' get you unaware. Who'll tell you w'at your wheat Will bring in Fevuary nex', In jus' so smood an' quiet vay De cure read his tex'. An' dere dey vere out on de floor, De mans who mak' de price Of all de country produce, A lookin' smood an' nice. But dey had vink opon dere eye Dat look you t'roo an' t'roo, Like tricky bunko steerer ven He's hunting after you.