The hero of this simple tale was born of parents beastly poor; they toiled and wrought without avail to scrape a living from the moor. Our hero early made resolve that he would strive for greater heights; "let others in these ruts revolve, and carry on their puny fights; to gather wealth, to live in state, is all that makes this life worth while; and when I'm grown I'll pull my freight, and try to raise a mighty pile." His dreams came true, in every way, as visions came, in days of old; he took no time for rest or play, but gathered in fat, yellow gold. By steady steps our hero rose, to heights of usefulness and fame; he put the kibosh on his foes, and held the ace in every game. He laughed at figtrees and at vines, and all domestic, trifling things; he owned some railways and some mines, and was among the copper kings. But why detail his glories so? Why should we try to count his dimes? It is enough for us to know he's been indicted twenty times. _The Hookworm Victim_ He was a mournful looking wreck, with yellow face and scrawny neck, and weary eyes that looked as though they had monopoly of woe. Too tired to get his labors done, all day he loitered in the sun, and filled the air with yawns and moans, while people called him Lazybones. One day the doctor came, and said: "Brace up, my friend! Hold up your head! The hookworm, deadly as an asp, has got you in its loathsome grasp! But I will break the hookworm lose, and cook its everlasting goose! Swing wide your mouth, and do not cringe--" and then he took his big syringe, and shot about a quart of dope, that tasted like a bar of soap, adown the patient's yawning throat--"I guess I got that hookworm's goat!" One gasping breath the patient drew, and bit a lightning rod in two, and vaulted o'er his cottage roof; and then, on nimble, joyous hoof, he sped across the windswept plain, and burned a school, and robbed a train. The doctor watched his patient streak across the landscape, sere and bleak, and said: "It makes my bosom warm! What wonders Science can perform!" _Alfred Austin_ O Alfred, of the withered bays and harp of nice clean celluloid, why do you spend the passing days in singing of an aching void? Why sing a roundelay that means no more than Choctaw to a Turk? Is it because the magazines will pay you kopecks for your work? O Alfred, of the bloodless rhyme, that savors more of milk than fire, bethink you of the olden time when poets really smote the lyre, producing strains of noble swell, that touched and stirred the hearts of all, and made the soulful people yell, and bat their heads against the wall! We listen to the songs you croon among the fogs across the sea; your poor old harp is out of tune, its strings were made in Germany. Far better poets roam the hills of this fair land, and feed on hope and write wild songs of liver pills, or Jimson's Non-Explosive Soap. _Weary Old Age_