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.