The Other Fellow's Girl.

She costs me not a cent for flowers, Nor yet a single cent for sweets; If to the theater she goes

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I never have to buy the seats;
She does not squelch my evening pipe
To drag me in the social whirl;
She leaves me to my quiet smoke-
I hymn the other fellow's girl!

I have to hear no tales of woe,
To wipe no briny tears away;

I do not have to sympathize

O'er what her treacherous friends may say;

We never quarrel; hence I'm spared
The epithets that women hurl,
And, too, the silly making up-

I hymn the other fellow's girl!

Her moods to me no difference make;
I quite enjoy a change, you see;
And she be cold, I like her so;

She's handsome on her dignity.
If, otherwise, she's moved to dote,

And to a manly breast would curl,
There's no face powder on my coat-
I hymn the other fellow's girl!

Changing Her Mind...

Alfred Perceval Graves* As I rowled on my side-car to Santry Fair, I chanced round a corner on Rose Adair, Her shoes in her hands, as she took the track, And a fowl in a basket upon her back. "Step up, Miss Rose! Och! that bird's luck, Attendin' the fair as Rose's duck,

As Rose's duck, as Rose's duck!" "No! Shawn Magee, the bird's a goose,

And to travel with two, there's no sort of use."

Baltimore American

Or any old letters would give me glee." And he gave away

All his cash one day

To a school and a college and a libraree.

Thomas Henry Bliggerson

Looked for his degree

Watched the mail

Till hope would fail,

For a note to give him glee,

You see,

When Dolly Would A Shopping Go Roy Farrell Greene..Frank Leslie's

No stretch of canvas sign I need,
No handbill pressed into my hand,
Nor page-advertisement to read
That I the all may understand.
By just the clinging, loving way

She welcomes me, I've come to know
The morrow must be bargain day,
And Dolly would a-shopping go.

My quite suspicious nature scents,

By just her coddling mood, a sign
That something sold at fifty cents

Has been marked down to forty-nine.
The pats, to soften me devised,

And loving hugs, by these I know
A bargain sale's been advertised,
And Dolly would a-shopping go.

An easy chair she'll place for me,
The evening paper bring, and then
I wonder if this sorcery

To me will mean a five or ten.
"You'll let me off with five, you say,
"Dear wife?" (accent on dear, you know)
That's luck, when comes a bargain day
And Dolly would a-shopping go!

And now a titter soft is heard

The sunflowers tell the posies"He's kissed her!" shouts a humming-bird. 'Tis love among the roses.

When Polly Danced the Minuet ....Adella Washer.......Smart Set
Now high and clear, then low and sweet,
The music rippled through the air,
While waxen candles shed soft light
Upon the gay throng gathered there.

The fragrant breath of new-mown hay
Came from the fields that lay outside,
And perfume from the roses stole
Through doors and windows open wide.

The dusky fiddlers' rosined bows

Flew o'er the quick responding strings, And love tripped with the dancers gay, . And touched them with his shining wings.

The powdered hair framed faces young,
Their coats were gay as Joseph's own,
And tongues and feet as lightly flew

As seed from ripened thistles blown. Epigrams From the Greek... G. Leveson Gower ...Spectator (London) ("Laus Veneris."-Asclepiades; Samos, I., 2.) Sweet to thirsty throats in summer is the draught of snow,

Sweet to sailors after winter spring's first blossoms blow;

Sweetest though when one cloak covers
Two glad lovers.

("Love and the Scholar."-Marcus Argentarius, I., 4.)

As I read Hesiod one day
Chloris came suddenly my way;

I dropped the book and cried for glee-
"Old Hesiod, that's enough for me!"

("Lover's Lips."-Plato, I., 5.)
Kissing Phyllis, all my soul

To my lips once found its way,
And eager to attain the goal
Had very nearly passed away.

("Love, the Runaway."-Meleager, I., 13.)
Stop the thief! Raise hue and cry!
Love, wild Love, has fled;
At the dawn I saw him fly
Laughing from my bed.

The boy is tearful, swift and shrill,
A chatterbox and sly,
Winged is he and has shafts to kill,
There's boldness in his eye.

No father owns him; carth denies
The rascal, sea and air
Disclaim him each. Where'er he flies
All hate him everywhere;

More snares for souls I fear he'll trace.
See!-ambushed there he lies;

The archer's made his lurking place
In Myrrha's laughing eyes.

*The numbers are those of the epigrams in Mackail's "Greek Anthology."

Wooded and watery Bohemia, though indeed no longer on the sea-coast, might well have seemed to Shakespeare, if he had really seen it, a suitable place for a tragical pastoral. Coming from Bayreuth to Prague, one finds one's self, as soon as one has got well beyond Karlsbad, in a totally new country. The very sky is new, and I have seen an orange light of fire breaking through barred clouds like a vision of the gate of the Venusberg, which added a new experience to my knowledge of sunsets. And the country is at once wide-reaching and mountainous, rising into pine woods above quiet rivers, and widening out into green and brown plains, hedgeless, with here and there a corn-field, a flock of geese herded by a small boy, a few goats, a few cows. All along the line people are bathing in the rivers, or lying with naked feet among the grass. A boatman tows himself across, reaching up to a rope above his head, as he stands in his flat, oblong boat, square at each end. The scenery is wild and yet gentle, with many delicate shades of green, fading into hills on which the mist turns the pine woods purple. And Prague itself, seen from the Wyssehrad, once the Acropolis of the city, and now a melancholy waste of grass and crawling roads and modern fortifications, seems little more than an accidental growth among green fields and treecovered hillsides, a wide land of woods and meadows and streams. Seen from the Hradschin, the Kremlin of Prague, it is a city of pointed spires, green domes, and red, many-gabled roofs, through which the Moldau wanders, carrying its five bridges, and it climbs the hill like Naples rising to Camaldoli. All Prague is red and green, and part of its charm for one, not only as one looks down upon it, seeing the freshness of the green among the red, comes from its homely, delightful way of filling up vacant spaces with grass and trees, as in the vast Karlovo Námesti, the only city square I know which is almost a park, laid out with smooth grass and cool trees and flower-beds planted in patterns, and yet an actual city square, closed in by civic buildings, with its fourteenth-century tower by the side of what was once a Rathhaus, out of whose windows Ziska had flung councillors. And the green is everywhere, spreading outward from the fortifications, high above the city, where the children play on the grass, spots of bright color, and piling itself mountainously up the Nebozizek, and softening the river with shadows, and flowering out of the river in green islands.

Warm, full of repose, heavy with happy sleep at mid-day, at night the river-side becomes mysterious, a romance. The water silvers; with its islands, from which lights glimmer, it might be a lake, but for the thunder of the weir, which comes to you as you walk under the trees, or go out on a kind of platform beside a dusty mill, from which you see the water rushing violently toward the great wooden stakes by the bridge. Lights move on the opposite shore, at the foot of what seems a vast mountain, dimly outlined. The bridge, at first invisible, a detached line of lights, comes out gradually as your eyes accustom themselves to the night mist, in the palest of gray, like the ghost of a bridge. Beyond and above, the Hradschin emerges in the same ghostly outline, a long gray line against the sky, out of which the cathedral spire points upward. It is a view which seems to have been composed, almost too full of the romantic elements to be quite natural, and it has something of whatever is strange, placid, and savage in the character of the Bohemians.

There is one corner of Prague which has kept, more than any other, its mediæval aspect, combining in itself many of the contrasts of this contradictory city: the Jewish quarter, which lies between the Staromestké Námesti and the river. The synagogue, built in the twelfth century, outside like a monstrous dwelling, inside like a dungeon, made in the image of a wizard's cell, with its low roof and heavy walls, black with age, pierced with narrow windows, its railed-off space in the center, in which a chair and desk seem to await a scribe, its narrow seats, each with its little desk, its tall candelabra and mean candlesticks, in some of which a candle is guttering out, its banner of the time of Ferdinand III., its suspended cloth or robe, hung with bells like the robe of the high-priest, its strange ornaments of wood and copper, as of some idolatry to which graven images had never lent grace, concentrates in itself all the horror of the Ghetto. And the Ghetto swarms about it in a medley of narrow streets and broad empty spaces, a pestilent circle of evil smells, and half-naked children, and slatternly Jews and Jewesses, in the midst of shops of old books and old clothes, and old houses with coats of arms over their doors and broken ornaments on their walls.

Out of the midst of this confusion, a short street leads to the old burial-ground, hidden behind its high enclosing-wall. This graveyard in the midst of the city, in which no graves have

been dug for more than a hundred years, carries back the mind, as one walks among its alleys and garden-plots of tombs, to an unknown antiquity. The tombstones are crowded and pressed together, rows of them overlap the same grave, and they huddle together in a forced companionship, leaning this way and that, battered and chipped, with worn lettering and broken ornaments. Most have inscriptions in Hebrew, with symbolical records of tribe or name: a fish for Fischer, a stag for Hirsch, two hands for the tribe of Aaron. Some are family tombs, in which the broken lid of a sarcophagus shows a glimpse of bones among the casual heapings of time. Some are famous tombs, such as that of Rabbi Löwe, the friend of Tycho Brahe, a tall slab crowned with a cone, and still heaped with little stones on every ledge, after the Jewish fashion of commemorating the dead. But now all cling together in a sad equality.

The sky was turning toward sunset as I wandered about the alleys, under the trees, and the last pale rays of the sun filtered through the leaves and gave a sadder light to the broken edges of gray stone. Now and then a blackbird crossed between the tombs and the sunlight. Toward the further end, where the graves are fewer and the trees grow more freely, children were playing on the grass. It seemed to me as if one were seeing all the graves of all the people who had ever died. These tombs, as no others had ever done, seemed to sum up the real meaning of our memory of the dead, the real way in which they crowd together, dwindling miserably, as time carries them further and further away from the general memory. They were inexpressibly human, these poor gravestones, on so few of which had any people now living come to put the pious stones of remembrance.

Prague, in summer, has the aspect of a southern rather than of a northern city; for the people are out-of-doors all day long, walking in the streets for the mere pleasure of walking in them, and sitting under the trees on the islands in the river, and in the gardens of many cafés, and in the parks, which lead into the country in every direction. They bring their books and their work with them, they bring little paper packets of sweets, and there is generally a band playing as they sit at tables drinking their "white coffee" or their beer. Bohemian music has a kind of fiery monotony, its polka-beat marked with all the emphasis of ceaseless cymbals, in an orchestra arranged after a somewhat savage fashion of its. own. Popular music, and the characteristically Bohemian music of Dvorák and Smetana, have a singular mixture of barbarism, of something

windy and savage, and a kind of conventionality. There is no passion in it, but a sort of primitive folk-rhythm, full of surprises to the western ear, with sudden spirals of the flutes and hautboys, leaps and clashes of the cymbals, enveloping outbursts of the brass. The people are for the most part quiet and good-humored people, in whom it is curious to trace the mixture of Slavonic and German blood. The pure German type, which begins to lessen at Karlsbad, is hardly to be seen at Prague; the faces are more nervous, with sharper eyes; the figures are slimmer, less shapeless. They are often very blond, at times very dark; and there is something a little wild, even in the soft beauty of blond women, a fiery sweetness, a certain strangeness, as of unfamiliar lights amid the shadows of still water; a little of the soft, unconscious savagery of the animals man has tamed, but which have never quite forgotten the forest. But they are not perilous, like the Hungarians; sly, sometimes, but simple. Children and young girls are often delicious, with their white skin and pale gold hair, which in some lights takes a faint shade of green, like the hair of a certain portrait by Palma Vecchio, known as the portrait of his daughter, in the gallery at Vienna.

M. Hugues Le Roux, the geographer, has just made public the following document given to him by the Sovereign of Ethiopia:

"He has vanquished the lion of the tribe of Juda, Menelick chosen by the Lord, the King of the Kings of Ethiopia.

"To all who may read this, Salutation:

"With my authorization and help, M. Hugues Le Roux went to Wallaga, and explored the country where the Didessa and the Blue Nile (Abai) meet. The point of junction of these two rivers has never been visited previously by a European.

"Therefore in testimony of my admiration for my illustrious and great friend, M. Loubet, president of the French Republic, I order that the mountain located between the rivers Didessa and Angher will be called Loubet Mountain.

"Besides, the mountain which separates the Blue Nile (Abaï) from the Didessa River will go by the name of Her Majesty the Empress Taïton.

"Furthermore the hills to the right and the left of the Abai will be called Ilg, Chefneux, Hugues Le Roux and Soucy.

"I give this letter to M. Hugues Le Roux in testimony of my satisfaction concerning his trip of exploration.

The vagaries of the lights as the torch-bearers move about bring out myriad marvelous shades of coloring as the glints flash through the snowy globules and the frost petals. At one point in the rocks a Noah's beard hangs, and from it long frost strings like fine silver wire and fully two feet long depend. The brilliancy of the frostcoated walls and ceiling when all the torches are blazing cannot be likened to anything ever seen by the visitor. The frost petals give out a wealth of coloring more picturesque than that which crystal reflects, while the pure white of the walls and ceiling makes a dazzling picture, set as it is with the blackness of the shadows beyond.

Reluctantly the party leaves the Garden of Eden and prepares to go still deeper into the earth. The Corkscrew Path-appropriately named for it is only a winding trail leading down around a deep, dark hole, brings the visitors to the banks of Dante's Inferno. This is a pit, the depth of which is unknown.

From Dante's Inferno it is a short journey to a still lower level to reach the Monte Christo Palace, the Assembly Room and the Fair Grounds. These chambers are four hundred and fifty feet below the entrance, and from Dante's Inferno to this lower level it is a constant change of rock formations and subterranean scenery, bewildering to a person who, for the first time, makes a trip in a great cavern. The chamber called the Fair Grounds is an immense hall, two hundred feet long and varying from forty to sixty feet wide, with a great high dome in the center. To reach the lowest level of the cave it is necessary to go from the Fair Grounds through Alpine Pass-a narrow, uncertain pathway-to a hole which leads to the Blue Grotto. This trip from the Fair Grounds to the Blue Grotto is attended with some peril and is attempted only by the most daring of sightseers. The hole through which you must pass to get to the lowest level is only large enough to permit of the passage of one person comfortably and that person must use the utmost care or he is in danger of getting an ugly fall. The Blue Grotto is on the five-hundredfoot level and its sides and roof are lined with heavy blue boxwork. Four distinct formations of rock have been encountered thus far: first, the regular limestone, then the red stone, next the pink colored rock, and fourth, blue stone. The Blue Grotto is a grotto, indeed, in appearance. Many of those who have explored Wind Cave

think it is the most remarkable of all the caverns. Along its sides are many recesses and from the roof depend a few stalactites. The deep blue of the rock and the peculiar formations of the pyramid-like piles that are met at every turn make a never-ending scenic marvel to the sightseer.

By what convulsion of nature or at what time in the world's history this marvelous cave was formed only the scientists can determine. It offers a rich field for study for the geologists, and will probably be the Mecca for them for years to come. But aside from the scientific problems this cave provides for the geologists and others it will no doubt, once it is appropriated by the Government and made a national park, be a point of great attraction not only to the people of the West but to travelers and others who find in the marvels of nature a field for profound thought and study.

A Day in the Faröes...... ..Elizabeth Taylor..........Good Words The fjelds, usually so silent and grim, this morning resound with the shouts of men, barking of dogs, and plaintive bleating of half wild sheep being driven down to slaughter. One man, who has preceded the others, bears on his shoulders a shaggy black sheep. He puts his burden down a few yards away, and leans up against a boulder to rest. What a subject for a painting he would make in his picturesque Faröe dress, with its knee breeches, brass buttons, and moccasins of tanned sheep-skin. He has loosened his red neck scarf, and pushed back his long striped cap, showing the tawny hair which lies in close wet rings about his handsome flushed face. At his feet lies the bound sheep, against his knee presses his dog, glancing up at his master with loving eyes. Whether the background of the picture be the snowy fields, or the wide stretches of sea, either would be appropriate. A hill-sheep and a codfish represent his sources of livelihood. He is a mountaineer and fisherman, and this dual existence has preserved for him the splendid physique which is his rightful inheritance from Norse ancestors. For the Faröe folk are true Norsemen, descendants of those proud old Vikings who, not powerful enough to resist the assumption of royal authority by Harold, the fairhaired, fled from Norway to these islands and to Iceland during the ninth century. The poverty of the Faröes and their isolated position midway between Scotland and Iceland have prevented much intercourse with the outside world, and the peasants, in their mode of living and thinking, have changed far less than those of continental countries.

I watch the men and sheep until they disappear