And now, to see him lyin’ there
      All by himself, a feast for the flies,—­
    Why, it kinder makes a feller’s hair
      Creep all over, first, then straighten and rise. 
          Maybe you’ll say to yourself:  “That’s all stuff.” 
          But I tell you what—­I think it’s blamed rough.

    It makes me feel, too, a little bit glum,
      To see how everything goes on the same;
    Some day, I s’pose, my turn ’ll come,
      When I’ll have to try on poor JAKE’S little game,
          And they won’t mind me any more, I’ll bet. 
          Than they do him.—­Off, here, sir?—­G’long, JEANETTE!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A FITFUL YOUTH.

Younger Party.  “LOOK HERE, VAN, CAN’T YOU LEAVE THOSE “PERSONALS” ALONE, FOR A MINUTE, AND GIVE ME A CANDID OPINION ON THE BACK FIT OF MY NEW COAT?”]

* * * * *

AUTUMN SONG.

    Leaves are falling (though, coal is not,)
      And pumpkins are yellow, and maids are blue;
    Potatoes and apples begin to rot;
      There’s many a liver congested, too.

    The dews stay late on the cabbage-leaf,
      And the red, red beet forsakes the ground;
    And lovers’ wanderings grow more brief,
      And fewer loafers are loafing around.

    The celery rivals the turnip fair;
      There’s new delight in the tender steak;
    And boys go munching the chestnut rare,
      Without one thought of the stomach-ache.

    The last of the cattle-shows is seen;
      The monster squash to the cows is fed;
    Everything’s brown that once was green,
      Except tomatoes, and they are red.

    The drowsy citizen hates to rise;
      The hash may be cold, but so is the air: 
    ’Tis heaven to slumber, for now the flies
      Are less affectionate, and more rare.

    And who is the busiest man we see? 
      ’Tis the Doctor, dashing by in his chaise;
    And well may he hurry, you will agree,
      For it isn’t every patient that pays.

    ’Tis a rare, rare season,—­so breezy and bright! 
      The dahlias, and even the squashes, are gay! 
    One wouldn’t regret the cold at night,
      If it wasn’t so deucedly cold by day.

    A wandering shiver inspires the doubt
      Whether Indian Summer will come this year;
    But its warmth can be felt when you don’t go out,
      And it’s haze may be seen through a glass of beer.

* * * * *

Query for Romancers.

Used the Knights of the Round Table ever to get a “Square meal”?

* * * * *

SARSFIELD YOUNG ATTENDS A COUNTY FAIR.