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Can't I wohk? What's moh,
Don't you s'pose

I takes in wash, dat
Jim'll tote clo'es?
Woman don't min' bein'

In a tub,

If dey's a man roun'

She kin lub

Dat's why I'll marry Jim,

Jes' caze I lub him!

What's dat? Jim shoot craps?

Who said dat?

Dey mus' a hev wheels

In de hat!

An' what if he does?

Mos' folks do,

Even chu'ch members

Shoot craps too,

'Cause Sun'ay night w'en

Brer White sez

"Brers an' sistahs,

My tex' ez

Found in Maf-few, seben, leben," Heah dem coons whispeh

"Come seben!"

Some of de mo’anahs an'

Deacons eben!

Chance fo' Jim if dey

Makes Heben!

Shucks! Blame a niggah

Fo' shootin' craps,

When de Prince of Wales

Plays back-a-rats!

An' othahs a-playin'
Fo' a prize

Big enough to open

Po' folks' eyes.

Doesn't mattah what

People sez,

I'se gwine to marry Jim,

Bet I ez!

Watch us a goin'

Down de aisle,

Bofe of us dressed up
In de lates' style-

Gwine to marry Jim

Jes' case I lub him!

DOSE OF SUNSHINE.

COMEDY MONOLOGUE FOR A MAN.

CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS.

CHARACTERS: BELIEVER IN SUNSHINE, Speaker present; BRadLEY, a country friend, supposed to be present.

COSTUME: Voyage costume.

SCENE: Cabin of vessel; later deck of vessel.

At rise of curtain BELIEVER IN SUNSHINE is discovered sitting in easy position with cigar in mouth.

O, Bradley; you're all wrong about sarcasm being of any value. Let's get out of the cabin and get some fresh air. [Rises and walks.] No; these men, who are always making fun of the world and saying unpleasant things about it in a sarcastic way or otherwise, ought to be stopped by law. You don't come in to town often, and you don't know what a set of backbiters most men are. Now I believe in sunshine myself. And there's no such

thing as sunshine if a man is all the time saying something against his neighbor. [Stops and leans against side of ship.] There's Joel Chase, standing beyond the chain there. He's about the most sour-visaged killjoy I ever saw, and he's always harping on the shortcomings of his neighbors. Why can't he find out their good qualities and do a little shouting about them? I like to see a man act as if he thought the world was a pretty decent sort of place. I like to hear a man tell me of the good things that people are doing; but I never hear any accounts of them, and I guess the reason is there's nothing doing. It's just as easy to say nice things as it is to say nasty things; but to hear old Chase talk you'd think there were no decent people in the world, and I half believe there ain't.

And then there's that thin-nosed, tight-lipped Meacham talking to Chase. He never has a good word for anybody, and I'm glad to say that nobody ever has a good word for him. What we want is men who can preach the gospel of sunshine all the time. What if I do happen to know that Old Man Pettingale pays his stenographer starvation wages? I wouldn't tell it to everybody, and I hope you won't spread it any further, because, if you do, it will be malicious gossip. Say something nice about Pettingale if you can. He's a hard subject, and I don't believe you can; but even if you have to give him up as a bad job, there are lots of people who are doing nice things all the while. I don't happen to think of any just at present, but I guess they could be found. Only who wants the trouble of looking them up? That's the rub. You may and I may, but there's mighty few who will go out of their way to find out something good about a man.

You may think I'm a crank, and I am a crank on the subject. There's nothing like sunshine and good nature and spreading good reports; but do you suppose that the average man would agree with me? Take Carpenter, for instance. He's that homely-looking duck with the Gladstone bag. He has one of the most cantankerous tongues you ever heard, and it's set against everybody all the time. What does he expect to gain by saying mean things

of his neighbor? He gains nothing but a reputation for meanness that I take pleasure in spreading because he deserves it. And I'm the last man to say a mean thing of a man, unless he brings it on himself. If I can't say something nice about a person, I generally keep my mouth shut, unless I'm hard up for conversation. But most people roll a bit of scandal under their tongues like a piece of candy.

Speaking of scandal reminds me that there are whispers going about affecting Robert H. Swetland, the cashier of the "Teenth National of Cranfield. I happen to know him, because we used to go to the same church when we were living at Demarest. I don't think it's got into the papers yet, and I hope it won't, because most people say there's nothing in it. But when you think of the numbers of upright cashiers who have gone wrong, there's not much chance for him, in my opinion. Now, Swetland generally has a kind word for every one, and he's my ideal of a man in some ways, and he's generous too; but, of course, if he gets his money crookedly that neutralizes the generosity. I really have enough human nature in me to make me look forward to something turning up in his case. I understand the bank examiners are at work, and it will make a stir in Bergen County if he really is dishonest; and excitement makes the world go round. But isn't it a pity? The very men who like him to-day will turn against him to-morrow and exaggerate his misdoings, and they'll recall the fact that his father was mixed up in some land-steal out West. I happen to know about it, because my wife's folks were interested. I say let bygones be bygones, but that isn't the way of this censorious world. You watch the papers, and you'll see what a sensation they'll make of it. And true every word; that's the pity of it.

You going up-town? Well, I'm going down. But you take the advice of a man older than you and try to be sunny. It don't cost anything (Who are you shoving, young man? Isn't this Talk about the Great American Drop in and see me some time and

gangway wide enough for you? Porker!) So long, Bradley. spread sunshine.

"MOTHER DOES WITHOUT."

JAMES J. MONTAGUE.

ATHER'S got a bran new suit-gee! but he looks swell,

Tom has got a new top coat, Dick a new red cap;
Even baby's got new clothes-perky little chap.
Family's just a perfect dream of red, white and blue,

And mother helps the color scheme-her kitchen apron's new.
Father's got a motor-boat; he thinks a lot of that.

Tom has got a camera; Dick a baseball bat.

The girls have got new writing sets, the baby's got a ball;

But mother, like she always is, is luckiest of all.

She doesn't care for fancy things; she says they're queer and

strange,

And so she's pleased to death to have a span new kitchen-range.

Father likes to go downtown as soon as dinner's done,
Tom and Dick play golf and ball, and say it's lots of fun.

The girls they dress themselves all up in their new clothes, and then
They sit around the big front porch and talk to nice young men.
And mother she just stays at home, she always says she wishes
There wasn't nothing else to do but cook and wash the dishes.
But sometimes when they all are gone, and she is left alone,
I kind of think she'd like to have some good times of her own.
I'd hate to b'lieve that she would say a thing that isn't true,
But I suspect that kitchen talk ain't on the square, don't you?
When he don't get things, pa gets mad; the girls they sulk and
pout;

The boys they howl, and baby cries, but mother does without!

STAYLATE. Your singing is delightful, Miss Ethel, it fairly carries me away.

ETHEL [looking yearningly at clock]. I had not noticed it.

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