These are the human links that bind us, but I can't.

Nor can I hope to get behind the mask
That shrouds from me their human cares and graces.
"Is your name William?" I shall want to ask,
And burn to know if this one bets on races,
Or that one has a pretty taste in braces,
Or if a third, who only says, "Just so,"
Beneath his tunic has a heart aglow
With treasured words of praise dropped by his golfing pro.

We'll part, we'll part! Nor with a soulful cry
Will one strong human citadel surrender.
M.O.'s who dandle babes no less than I
Will leave me cold; M.O.'s who have a tender
Passion for my own type of sock-suspender
Won't utter it. Though on my heaving breast
They lean their heads, they'll lean them uncaressed;
We'll part, nor overstep the auscultation test.

* * * * *

"AMERICA'S BLOCKADE.

By David G. Pinkney, the well-known chip-owner."--_Evening News_.

A chip of the old blockade.

* * * * *