Can't calculate when we come in
From any neighborin' place,
Whether we'll ever go out agin
To look on natur's face.

Can't calculate upon the weather,

It always changes so;

Hain't got no means of telling whether
It's gwine to rain or snow.

Can't calculate with no precision

On naught beneath the sky;

And so I've come to the decision

That 't ain't worth while to try.

Frances M. Whitcher.

NORTHERN FARMER

NEW STYLE

DOSN'T thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? Proputty, proputty, proputty-that's what I 'ears 'em saäy. Proputty, proputty, proputty-Sam, thou's an ass for thy

paaïns:

Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braaïns.

Woä-theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's

'ouse

Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse?

Time to think on it, then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk. Proputty, proputty-woä then, woä-let ma 'ear mysén

speäk.

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as beän a-talkin' o' thee; Thou's been talkin' to muther, an' she beän a-tellin' it me. Thou'll not marry for munny-thou's sweet upo' parson's lass

Noä-thou'll marry for luvv-an' we boäth of us thinks tha

an ass.

Northern Farmer

355

Seeä'd her to-daäy goä by-Saäint's-daäy-they was ringing the bells.

She's a beauty, thou thinks-an' soä is scoors o' gells.

Them as 'as munny an' all-wot's a beauty?—the flower as blaws.

But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws.

Do'ant be stunt: taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa

mad.

Warn't I craäzed fur the lasses mysén when I wur a lad?

But I knaw'd a Quaäker feller as often 'as towd ma this: "Do'ant thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!"

An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy mother coom to 'and, Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish bit o' land.

Maäybe she warn't a beauty: I niver giv it a thowt

But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt?

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's dead,
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle her breäd:
Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weänt niver git naw

'igher;

An' 'e's maäde the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire.

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, Stook to his taäil they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi noän to lend 'im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv.

Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, Maäkin' 'em goä togither, as they've good right to do. Couldn't I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by? Naäy-for I luvv'd her a vast sight moor fur it: reäson

why.

Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass,

Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boäth on us thinks tha

an ass.

Woä then, proputty, wiltha?-an ass as near as mays nowtWoä then, wiltha? dangtha!-the bees is as fell as owt.

Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence! Gentleman burn! What's gentleman burn? Is it shillins an' pence?

Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it isn't the saäme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best.

"Tisn' them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steäls, Them as 'as coöts to their backs an 'taäkes their regular meäls.

Noä, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl's to be 'ad. Taäke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot. Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got.

Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leästways 'is munny was 'id.
But 's tued an' moil'd 'issén deäd, an' 'e died a good un, 'e

did.

Look thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill!

Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill;
An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see;
And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee.

Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I meäns to stick;
But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leäve the land to Dick.—
Coom oop, proputty, proputty-that's what I 'ears 'im saäy—
Proputty, proputty, proputty-canter an' canter awaäy.
Lord Tennyson.

Then Ag'in

FIN DE SIECLE

LIFE is a gift that most of us hold dear:

I never asked the spiteful gods to grant it;
Held it a bore-in short; and now it's here,
I do not want it.

Thrust into life, I eat, smoke, drink, and sleep,
My mind's a blank I seldom care to question;
The only faculty I active keep

Is my digestion.

Like oyster on his rock, I sit and jest

At others' dreams of love or fame or pelf,
Discovering but a languid interest
Even in myself.

An oyster: ah! beneath the quiet sea

To know no care, no change, no joy, no pain,
The warm salt water gurgling into me

And out again.

While some in life's old roadside inns at ease
Sit careless, all unthinking of the score
Mine host chalks up in swift unseen increase
Behind the door;

Bound like Ixion on life's torture-wheel,
I whirl inert in pitiless gyration,
Loathing it all; the one desire I feel,
Annihilation!

357

Unknown.

THEN AG'IN

JIM BOWKER, he said, ef he'd had a fair show,
And a big enough town for his talents to grow,
And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row,
Jim Bowker, he said,

He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name,
An' clim the top round in the ladder of fame.

It may have been so;

I dunno;

Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in-

But he had tarnal luck-everythin' went ag'in him,
The arrers of fortune they allus' 'ud pin him;
So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him.
Jim Bowker, he said,

Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come,
An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clum—
It may have been so;

I dunno;

Jest so, it might been,
Then agʼin-

But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less-
Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success,
An' give fortune the blame for all our distress,
As Jim Bowker, he said,

Ef it hadn't been for luck an' misfortune an' sich,
We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich.
It might be jest so;

I dunno;

Jest so, it might been,

Then ag'in

Sam Walter Foss.

THE PESSIMIST

NOTHING to do but work,

Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes,
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air,

Quick as a flash 't is gone;

Nowhere to fall but off,

Nowhere to stand but on.