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The Giraffe.

My child, ob-serve the use-ful Ant,
How hard she works each day.
She works as hard as ad-a-mant
(That's very hard, they say).
She has no time to gal-li-vant;
She has no time to play.
Let Fido chase his tail all day;
Let Kitty play at tag:
She has no time to throw a-way,
She has no tail to wag.
She scurries round from morn till night;
She ne-ver, ne-ver sleeps;
She seiz-es ev-ery-thing in sight,
And drags it home with all her might,
And all she takes she keeps.

See the Gi-raffe; he is so tall
There is not room to get him all
U-pon the page. His head is high-er-
The pic-ture proves it—than the Spire.
That's why the na-tives, when they race
To catch him, call it stee-ple-chase.
His chief de-light it is to set
A good example: shine or wet,
He rises ere the break of day,
And starts his break-fast right away.
His food has such a way to go, –
His throat 's so very long, -and so
An early break-fast he must munch
To get it down ere time for lunch.

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An' aftah he jes look at her wunst, he lit out de he wuz mad and laughin' too, an' Tadgeous he
house like de buzzards wuz aftah him, an'he run come back an' tol me.
all de way up to Marse Stevens' study, whey he “'You 's a fool niggah, anyhow,' says I, 'cuttin'
wuz writin', like he allus do— 'cause he can write up hyah like dis wuz a white chile, at leas'!'
so fine dat nobody can't read it, scya’cely. An' "Well

, anyhow,' says he, “it 's gwine to hab a Tadgeous jes bu'st een de do', like he done for- white name, 'cause Marse Stevens gwine name got all his manners, an' he say: 'Oh, Marse her.' So we axed Marse Stevens to name her, an' Stevens!' says he, 'dey 's a big accident down at he says: 'Why, you done name her yo'se'f. Call my house!

her Accident.' And we calls her Axy for short. "Great Cæsar!' says Marse Stevens; an'wid dat “It wah n't so long befo' dey wuz a boy; an' he jumps outen his cheer like he been shot, an' Tadgeous wuz as proud 'bout him as he wuz 'bout he run to de telephone, an' he holler fo' 'em to Accident, an' he wanted to name him outen a sen' up all de injuns, an' he turn round to Tad- book dat Miss Em'ly been readin' to him in. She geous, an' he say, says he: 'Go git de gyahden-hose, wuz readin' him 'bout a man named de Crafty an' skeet on it quick as ebah you can!'

Yulicee; but when he tol me 'bout how dis man “Den, Tadgeous say, he wanter laugh dat bad made a horse swallow live mens, an' den change he 'mos' bu'st, an' he say to Marse Stevens: hisse'f to wood, an' walk right troo a stone wall,

“'Lawdy, Marse Stevens!' says he, I ain' nebbah I wuz skeered he wuz a hoodoo man, an' I did n’ said it wuž a fire accident. It's a gal, de onliest wanter name de baby dat. But Tadgeous said he one I's got, an' I don' want to drown her like she knowed better, an' he had a big baptizzamul. wuz cat's chillens!' Den Marse Stevens seem like An' it 's jes like I t'ought, cause dat chile is allus

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gitten' een trouble, wid de best of retentions. It wuz on account of Crafty Yulicee allus crawlin' een de cistern whey Marse Stevens kep' de drinkinwatah dat we moved ’way from de school an' come out heah to lib.

“De nex' one wuz a gal, an' Tadgeous sayed how I could name her, an' I gabe her a real fancy name. We baptized her Violetta Marietta Evelina Rose Christina, 'n' she allus did real well.

"Den dey wuz a boy, an' Tadgeous called him aftah anuddah man een dat same book. I warned Tadgeous 'bout doin' dat way, but he would hab his own way, an' he named dis one Napoleon Bonefidey Waterloo Prophet; an' he wuz allus unfortunate, too, same like I sayed. When he wuz little, I gabe him to Axy to wash his laigs real clean, one day; an' when I come to find her, hearin' de baby cryin' so, she had tooked white sand an' de scrubbin'-brush, an' had scoured all de skin an’ mos' ob de meat offen his laigs, tryin' to git um white. Sence den he hab allus wobbled when he walked, bein' as his laigs is weak.

“I named de nex’ one, which wuz a gal, Belladonna California Mississippi Idaho, an' she nebbah gabe nobody no trouble. But Tadgeous sayed how he wuz tired ob gals, an' when de nex' one come we could n' decide on no name to suit us. She wuz de fines' an' de bes' baby we ebah had, an' it seem like, 'cause Tadgeous' heart kindah turned away fom her, dat mine kindah hankered aftah her, an' I nebbah could bear to let her tumble round like de res'. So I set Crafty Yulicee to min' her, which kep' him outen muschief. But one day, when she wuz cuttin' her little teef, an' kindah fretful-like, he fed her a han'ful ob yellow jessamines, an' it kilt her dat same day. All day long I helt her een my arms, an' she kindah cuddled up an' moaned an' cried out; but at sundown she died, an’ we buried her obah yondah een de pines beyon' de branch, fo' I could n'hab her out ob my sight, eben when she wuz dead. When ole mis' gabe me de tombstone, I axed her please to put de name on it, ‘Little Jessamine'; an' she promised me dat when she come home f'om de sea-sho' she 'll bring me some white shells to make a bordah roun' Little Jessamine's grabe.

Sence dat day I ain' had no mo' heart for chillen; an' when twins come las' yeah, - bofe boys, -an' Tadgeous had turned ag’inst de books, I jes named um Had-a-plenty an' Wan’-no-mo'.

“Yes, ma’am; dey is likely chillen, but not like she wuz. An' sometimes, dese summah nights, when I lay by de open do,' an' heah de pines mo’nin' beyon' de branch, it seems like my baby calls me; an' I leabes dese chillen an' Tadgeous, an' goes an’ lies down dyah by her; an' I wisht to Gawd I 'd nebbah had but one chile, an' dat wuz Little Jessamine!”

Marion Alexander Haskell.

So easy seems it as you read,
So gay the bard and debonair,
To follow Dobson's gentle lead
No wight there is who might not dare.
But let him fly the elfish snare!
Through thorn and bramble, turn and twist,
Through brake and thicket, he must fare
Who 'd be a modern balladist.

II.

What matters whither he would speed,
Or what the path he 'd fain forbear?
For him are winding ways decreed,
That carry him he knows not where.
Still must he wander here and there,
With shifting goal forever missed;
But he'd his mother-tongue forswear
Who 'd be a modern balladist!

III.

Aye, would he so! For him, indeed, What did the Celt and Saxon care? Should he of rhymes a dozen need, He 'll find, perhaps, a paltry pair. With aching head and clutched hair, Still must he scan the meager list. He has of woes, I wot, his share Who'd be a modern balladist!

L'ENVOI.

The Old Story. He was a pious saint of old,

Who dwelt within a hermit's cell; He had forsworn the face of Love,

And thought he knew him well.

Friend of the editorial chair,

Yet may another ill exist: Should you bestow a frigid stare,

Who'd be a modern balladist?

Annie Steger Winston.

THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK.

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