to a hot rock.

Member Julie that song we all usto sing comin home on the boat after
a picnic at Staten Island of the Patrick Dooley East Side Outing
and Chowder Club? You know Julie--The chorus ends with Beans! Beans!
Beans! Say kid, that song would fit in this camp like a hungry tramp
at a chicken dinner. Every farmer in the good ol' U.S.A. must have
planted nothing but beans for the last two years. We have 'em boiled
fer breakfast, baked fer dinner, and in the soup for supper. Every
time the Chaplin (not Charlie) says grace, he always "Thanks the Lord
for these tokens of his grace," and Skinny got forty-ate hours in the
booby hatch fer askin me real loud like, so everybody could hear him
to "please put some of them tokens on his plate."

[Illustration: "Dinner fer white folks, but jest 12 o'clock fer
niggers--"]

But all the same Julie I'm glad I'm here. Of course I miss you; as the
poet sez "Your brite smile haunts me still." Never will I ferget what
a beautiful picture you made the Sunday before I left when I was rowin
you round the lake in Central Park. You was settin up in the bough of
the boat trailing your lily white hand in the water, and looking up
into my eyes you gurgled in a voiced choking with love, emotion and
beer, you said, "Wouldn't it be heavenly derie, if we could go floting
down life's stream in a boat like this forever and ever"--an' me
paying 25c. an hour for the boat. Of course you didn't think of that,
did you derie.

Yours until Brooklyn wins another penant,