And he scored a goal and touchdown with his papa as the ball.

[Illustration: "That was jolly, Guv'nor. now we'll practice every day."]

Then a cigarette he lighted, as he slowly strolled away,
Saying, "That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day";
While his father from the puddle, where he wallowed in disgrace,
Smiled upon his offspring, proudly, from a bruised and battered face,
And with difficulty rising, quick he hobbled to the house.
"Henry's all right, Ma!" he shouted to his anxious, waiting spouse,
"He jest licked me good and solid, and I tell yer, Mary Ann,
When a chap kin lick _your husband_ he's a mighty able man!"

* * * * *

A CRUSHED HERO

On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm,
Sits a freckled youth and lanky, red of hair and long of arm;
But his mien is proud and haughty and his brow is high and stern,
And beneath their sandy lashes, fiery eyes with purpose burn.
Bow before him, gentle reader, he's the hero we salute,
He is Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Search not Fame's immortal marbles, never there his name you'll find,
For our hero, let us whisper, is a hero in his mind;
And a youth may bathe in glory, wade in slaughter time on time,
When a novel, wild and gory, may be purchased for a dime.
And through reams of lurid pages has he slain the Sioux and Ute,
Bloody Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.