Shoost see dese diamant rings!

Coom down and fill your pockets, And I'll giss you like efery dings.

"Vot you vanst mit your schnapps and lager?

Come down into der Rhine!

Der ish pottles de Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!"

_Dat_ fetched him--she shtood all shpell-pound; She pooled his coat-tails down; She drawed him oonder der wa.s.ser, De maiden mit nodings on.

_Charles G.o.dfrey Leland._

GRAMPY SINGS A SONG

Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis, Hush up your teasin' and listen to this: 'Tain't much of a jingle, 'tain't much of a tune, But it's spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon.

The thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.

He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose; When the 'larm rung he'd start, sis, a-sheddin' his clothes, --Slung cote and slung wes'cote and kicked off his shoes, A-runnin' like fun, for he'd no time to lose.

And he'd howl down the ro'd in a big cloud of dust, For he made it his brag he was allus there fust.

--Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout, And he never shut up till the fire was out.

And he'd knock out the winders and save all the doors, And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the floors, For he allus allowed 'twas a tarnation sin To 'low 'em to burn, for you'd want 'em agin.

He gen'rally stirred up the most of his touse In hustling to save the outside of the house.

And after he'd wra.s.sled and hollered and pried, He'd let up and tackle the stuff 'twas inside.

To see him you'd think he was daft as a loon, But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.

Row diddy-iddy, my little sis, Now see what ye think of a doin' like this: The time of the fire at Jenkins' old place It got a big start--was a desprit case; The fambly they didn't know which way to turn.

And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn.

But Chester Cahoon--oh, that Chester Cahoon, He sailed to the roof like a reg'lar balloon; Donno how he done it, but done it he did, --Went down through the scuttle and shet down the lid.

And five minutes later that critter he came To the second floor winder surrounded by flame.

He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed, And balanced a bureau right square on his head.

His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff, China and gla.s.s; as if that warn't enough, He'd rolls of big quilts round his neck like a wreath, And carried Mis' Jenkins' old aunt with his teeth.

You're right--gospel right, little sis,--didn't seem The critter'd git down, but he called for the stream, And when it come strong and big round as my wrist; He stuck out his legs, sis, and give 'em a twist; And he hooked round the water jes' if 'twas a rope, And down he come easin' himself on the slope, --So almighty spry that he made that 'ere stream As fit for his pupp'us' as if 'twas a beam.

Oh, the thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.

_Holman F. Day._

THE FIRST BANJO

Go 'way, fiddle; folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'-- Keep silence fur yo' betters!--don't you heah de banjo talkin'?

About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!-- About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':

"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn-- Fur Noah tuk the "_Herald_," an' he read de ribber column-- An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches, An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_.

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen: An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es-- Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!

He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Ja.r.s.ey cattle-- An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out--'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat--an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin', _an'_ a-sailin'; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' round' an' cussin'.

Now, Ham, he only n.i.g.g.e.r whut wuz runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c'u'dn't stan' de racket; An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an aprin; An' fitted in a proper neck--'twas berry long and tap'rin'; He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong,--des fit fur banjo-stringin'; Dat n.i.g.g.e.r shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to ba.s.ses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,--'twus "Nebber min' de wedder,"-- She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers; An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob n.i.g.g.e.rs!

Now, sence dat time--it's mighty strange--dere's not de slightes'

showin'

Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; An' curi's, too, dat n.i.g.g.e.r's ways: his people nebber los' 'em-- Fur whar you finds de n.i.g.g.e.r--dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!

_Irwin Russell._

THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET

Basking in peace in the warm spring sun, South Hill smiled upon Burlington.

The breath of May! and the day was fair, And the bright motes danced in the balmy air.

And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple-trees.

His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned, As he stood with a carriage whip in his hand.

And he laughed as he doffed his bobtail coat, And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.

And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop, And said she'd tell him when to stop.

So he pounded away till the dinner-bell Gave him a little breathing spell.

But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one, And she said the carpet wasn't done.

But he lovingly put in his biggest licks, And he pounded like mad till the clock struck six.

And she said, in a dubious sort of way, That she guessed he could finish it up next day.

Then all that day, and the next day, too, That fuzz from the dirtless carpet flew.