THE TRAIN-MISSER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin-
Ef I haint missed that train agin!

Chuff! and whistle! and toot! and ring!
But blast and blister the dasted train!-
How it does it I can't explain!

Git here thirty-five minutes before

The dern thing's due!-and, drat the thing!
It'll manage to git past-shore!

The more I travel around, the more
I got no sense! To stand right here
And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
Ticket-agent's a dad-burned bore!-
Sell you a ticket's all they keer!-
Ticket-agents ort to all be

Prosecuted-and that's jes' what!-
How'd I know which train's fer me?
And how'd I know which train was not?-
Goern and comin' and gone astray,
And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!

Ef I could jes' sneak round behind
Myse'f, where I could git full swing,
I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!
Till I jes' got jerked up and fined!—
Fer here I stood, as a dern fool's apt
To, and let that train jes' chuff and choo
Right apast me--and mouth jes' gapped
Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!

'Afterwhiles," copyright 1898, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. special permission of the publishers.

Used by

23

THE ELOCUTIONIST'S CURFEW

BY W. D. NESBIT

England's sun was slowly setting-(Raise your right hand to your brow),

Filling all the land with beauty-(Wear a gaze of rapture now); And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair (With a movement slow and graceful you may now push back your hair);

He with sad, bowed head-(A drooping of your head will be all right,

Till you hoarsely, sadly whisper)-"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered-(Try here to resemble Bess,

Tho of course you know she'd never worn quite such a charming dress),

"I've a lover in that prison"-(Don't forget to roll your r's And to shiver as tho gazing through the iron prison bars), "Cromwell will not come till sunset"-(Speak each word as tho you'd bite

Every syllable to pieces)-"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (Here extend your velvet palm,

Let it tremble like the sexton's as tho striving to be calm), "Long, long y'ars I've rung the curfew"-(Don't forget to make it y'ars

With a pitiful inflection that a world of sorrow bears),

"I have done my duty ever"-(Draw yourself up to your height, For you're speaking as the sexton)-"Gyurl, the curfew rings to-night!"

Out she swung, far out-(Now here is where you've got to do your best;

Let your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up your chest,

Swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal degrees, Then come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't bend your knees;

Keep this up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and white, Then gaze at your mangled fingers)-"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell-(Right hand to the brow once more;

Let your eyes look down the distance, say above the entrance door)

At his foot she told her story-(Lift your hands as tho they hurt)

And her sweet young face so haggard-(Now your pathos you assert,

Then you straighten up as Cromwell, and be sure you get it right; Don't say "Go, your liver loves!")-well: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Reprinted from Harper's Magazine, by permission of Harper and Brothers.

MELPOMENUS JONES

BY STEPHEN LEACOCK

Some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think" Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle

ensues.

I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate-such a dear young man and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too relig

ious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own-absolutely nothing to do. He chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:

"Well, I think I—”

But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no, Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?"

Jones was always truthful-"Oh, yes, of course, I-er-can.' "Then please don't go."

He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again.

"Well, now, I think I really-—____""

"You must go? I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner

"Oh, well, so I could, you know, if"

"Then please stay; I'm sure my husband will be delighted." "All right, I'll stay"; and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable.

Father came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid.

After dinner mother undertook to "draw him out" and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them-photos of father's uncle and his wife, and mother's brother and his little boy, and awfully interesting photos of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully welltaken photo of father's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of father as the devil for a fancy-dress ball. At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose. "I must say good-night now," he pleaded.

"Say good-night! why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?"

"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably.

Just then it turned out that the favorite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones' hat; so father