Volume 1 — RHYMES BY THE BARDS OF GRAFT.

All the world is graft, And all the men and women merely grafters. They have their sure things and their bunco games, And one man in his time works many grafts, His bluffs being seven ages. At first the infant Conning his dad until he walks the floor; And then the whining schoolboy, poring o'er his book, Jollying his teacher into marking him A goodly grade. And then the lover, Making each maiden think that she Is but the only one. And then the soldier, Full of strange words and bearded like a pard, Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the magazines. And then the justice, Handing out the bull con to the bench And jollying the jury till it thinks He knows it all. The sixth age shifts To lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose—his is a graft! For he is then the Old Inhabitant And all must hear him talk. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans graft, sans pull, sans cinch, sans everything. Chicago Tribune.

"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" says the youngest boy to pa; "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" says the youngest girl to ma; "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" says the maiden to her beau; Everywhere the answer is, "Oh, sumpin, I dunno." "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" asks the little boy at school— His just 'fore Christmas goodness makes him mindful of each rule; "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" sings the gamin in the street; "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" on our every hand we meet. "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" asks the yawning money-box Meant to catch the coin to feed the hungry folks in flocks; "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" asks the wretched and the poor, Living in their penury a stone's throw from your door. "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" asks the great big world, of you; "Lifetime full of usefulness, heart sincere and true?" "Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" Hear it everywhere you go— Always comes the answer, "Oh, just sumpin, I dunno." Baltimore American.

There's a basis for a thesis in the history of Crœsus— Mr. Crœsus, Greece's captain of finance; It contains an exegesis on the clippings of the fleeces Of the lambs, when Wall Street's breezes are not tempered, and the geese's Ravished feathers pay the piper for the dance. "In the days of old Rameses, this here story had paresis"— So says Kipling, and what he says goes with me, But old or new, it pleases me at times to save the pieces Of the stories of the glories and the grandeurs that were Greece's, When they prophesy a modern case, you see. The capture of old Crœsus was a stunt of the police's That for up-to-dateness seizes me with joy. He was roasted like a cheese is, out there on the Chersonesus, Till he hollered for his lawyer—"Solon!" Ay, that's where the squeeze is— "Technicality"—trial ceases—"vindication"—this release is What the grafters count on nowadays, my boy! Cleveland Leader.