align="left">David Gray

1462 Mr. Dooley on Golf Finley Peter Dunne 1630 Niagara be Dammed Wallace Irwin 1551 Not According to Schedule Mary Stewart Cutting 1448 Nothing to Wear William Allen Butler 1435 One of the Palls Doane Robinson 1601 Paper: A Poem Benjamin Franklin 1548 Road to a Woman's Heart, The Sam Slick 1487 Sceptics, The Bliss Carman 1626 Staccato to O Le Lupe, A Bliss Carman 1499 Table Manners James Montgomery Flagg 1400 V-A-S-E, The James Jeffrey Roche 1603 Vive la Bagatelle Clinton Scollard 1497 When the Sirup's on the Flapjack Bert Leston Taylor 1634

COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.

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A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT[1]

BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE

Now, everything that Russell did, he did his best to hasten,
And one day he decided that he'd like to be a Mason;
But nothing else would suit him, and nothing less would please,
But he must take, and all at once, the thirty-three degrees.

So he rode the—ah, that is, he crossed the—I can't tell;
You either must not know at all, or else know very well.
He dived in—well, well, never mind! It only need be said
That somewhere in the last degree poor Russell dropped down dead.

They arrested all the Masons, and they stayed in durance vile
Till the jury found them guilty, when the Judge said, with a smile,
"I'm forced to let the prisoners go, for I can find," said he,
"No penalty for murder in the thirty-third degree!"

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TABLE MANNERS[2]

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG

When you turn down your glass, it's a sign
That you're not going to take any wign.
So turn down your plate
When they serve things you hate,
And you'll often be asked out to dign.

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THE GIRL AND THE JULEP

BY EMERSON HOUGH

In the warm sun of the southern morning the great plantation lay as though half-asleep, dozing and blinking at the advancing day. The plantation house, known in all the country side as the Big House, rested calm and self-confident in the middle of a wide sweep of cleared lands, surrounded immediately by dark evergreens and the occasional primeval oaks spared in the original felling of the forest. Wide and rambling galleries of one height or another crawled partially about the expanses of the building, and again paused, as though weary of the attempt to circumvent it. The strong white pillars, rising from the ground floor straight to the third story, shone white and stately, after the old Southern fashion, that Grecian style, simplified and made suitable to provincial purses by those Adams brothers of old England who first set the fashion in early American architecture. White-coated, with wide, cool, green blinds, with ample and wide-doored halls, and deep, low windows, the Big House, here in the heart of the warm southland, was above all things suited to its environment. It was all so safe and sure that there was no need for anxiety. Life here was as it had been for generations, even for the generation following the upheaval of the Civil War.

But if this were a kingdom apart and self-sufficient, what meant this thing which crossed the head of the plantation—this double line, tenacious and continuous, which shone upon the one hand dark, and upon the other, where the sun touched it, a cold gray in color? What meant this squat little building at the side of these rails which reached on out straight as the flight of a bird across the clearing and vanished keenly in the forest wall? This was the road of the iron rails. It clung close to the ground, at times almost sinking into the embankment now grown scarcely discernible among the concealing grass and weeds, although the track itself