He held out his hand, but before I could grasp it a mist again
enveloped me, from which I emerged upon the dreadful facts of life.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Employer._ "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

_Old Operative._ "'AVING ME 'AIR CUT."

_Employer._ "WHAT, IN _MY_ TIME?"

_Old Operative._ "WELL, IT GREW IN YOUR TIME."]

* * * * *

SONGS OF FOOD PRODUCTION

VI.

BALLAD OF THE POTATO.

Above three hundred years ago
To Britain's shores there came
An immigrant of lineage low--
Sol Tuberose his name.

He settled down in mean estate,
Despised on every side,
Until at last he waxéd great,