I’ll take you to the Follies, dear, If there you think you’d like to go; I’ll buy you beaucoup wine and beer Down at the gay Casino show; In short, I’ll do whatever task Your little heart desires to name Save one: You must not ever ask To see another baseball game. Your understanding is immense At “compreying” the jokes they spring In vaudeville shows—and you’re not dense Because you like to hear me sing. But, cherie, you will never be The one to set my heart aflame, Because you simply cannot see The inside of a baseball game. When you and I were watching while The Doughboys battled the Marines, Did classy hitting make you smile? Did you rejoice in home run scenes? Ah, no; when Meyer slammed the pill— They couldn’t find it for a week— You turned to me and said, “Oh, Bill, I sink hees uniform ees chique.” And did you holler “Atta Boy!” When Powell zipped ’em, one, two, three, And made the Doughboys dance with joy— Was yours the voice that rose in glee? Not so; you made your escort feel Like one big, foolish, roasted goose, When all the bleachers heard you squeal, “But, Bill, hees nose ees so retrousse.” So when you don your new chapeau Hereafter for a promenade, Remember that no more we’ll go To sit beneath the grandstand shade; Your curtain calls are surely great Where Thespians tread the boards of fame, But, Gosh! you can’t appreciate A good old Yankee baseball game. S. H. C. MY SWEETHEART I saw her in a dream as though in life, Her form, her soft blue eyes, her eider hair, Which fell as silken, golden portals, draped Before her bosom fair. She whispered in my ear, “Sweetheart, be brave, We’ll back you up in all you do and dare.” Then bending o’er, she pressed her lips to mine ... I woke—she was not there. FRANK C. MCCARTHY, Sgt., A.S. DAD’S LETTERS My dad ain’t just the letter writin’ kind— He’d rather let the women see to that; He’s got a mess o’ troubles on his mind, And likes to keep ’em underneath his hat.