* * * * * The Steering Wheel. ’Twas a party blithe and gay, On a joy ride as they say, Gliding many miles away from home. Midnight long was by They were coming in on high When suddenly there was an awful moan. The steering wheel went wrong, the papers said, One was badly injured, three were dead. The same old story neatly woven in a tale, The sadness of the scene behind the vale, And not a line or word to make you think, What had put the wheel upon the blink. The verdict of jury, so they say, Said the steering wheel was loose and had too much play; But by chance some people looking around, Some real and newer evidence was found, ’Tis evidence you find and seldom fail If you let the ribbon bottle tell the tale. So in the name of justice, as I feel, Why not exonerate the wheel. * * * * * Such High Taxes, Gee-Whilaker. Meadow larks, as you have undoubtedly noticed, warble many different songs. They sound like this to me: One says, “Here is your homesick girl.” Another, “Light the light, it is gone down.” Another, “Here is your English preacher.” Another, “The smeeking smock bird,” and others, from which the following poem is written, say, “Such high taxes, Gee-whilaker.” As I stood in the yard of our high taxed home, And filled my lungs with pure ozone, My eye went wandering far and nigh, And I saw a meadow lark flitting by. He flew to a post for a moment’s rest, And gazed a while both east and west, And then soared on, going higher and higher, Till he perched way up on the court house spire. From a bird’s eye view of quaint renown, He sized up the modern Julesburg town, The stand pipe built on the court house square, Is an old eye sore with a record rare. The power house hid from the passer by Must been for economy, heat or pie? The city sewer, electric lights, Cement side-walks and high school sites, Was picturesque and nice to heed, But sad for the one that held the deed. He raised his head as he ceased to note, And out from the depths of his golden throat His voice did peal as he said with a whirr, Such high taxes, Gee-whilaker. * * * * * To the Mrs. I am going to take a kiss, And I know it’s not a miss, But before I miss my kisses, I will take them from the Mrs.