So the others gathered in one hundred and ninety-six dollars and twenty-five cents that evening, and turned it over to the chairman of the finance committee. The next day—Monday—there were seventy-five women waiting at his store when he opened the doors for business, and they kept coming in such numbers that lie didn't shut up shop until 1 a.m. Tuesday. Then he started in to count receipts, and had barely got through when he had to open up again at seven o'clock or see his glass smashed in by the throng outside. Goods kept arriving on every train, and every wagon in the village was busy hauling them to his store, where they would remain a few hours and then be taken away to purchasers.
Thursday night Hiram sent for the doctor, and on Friday morning the village learned that he was a wreck from nervous prostration and had started for Colorado to regain his health. Then the city papers got hold of the news, and by night Hiram's creditors began to arrive. They broke into the store, and found nothing there but empty shelves and a safe weighing three tons, which contained a good deal of air and some dust.
We don't look forward very hopefully to seeing Hiram Yupsilon Biswel in our midst again—at least not in the near future. And a good many wouldn't be at all surprised to hear any day that the State of Colorado was missing from its accustomed place in the Union.
What's the News?
OH, fold up the morning paper—
Who cares for the news of town?
But—what are the violets doing?
Has the jonquil made her gown
To wear through the gay spring hours
So mindful of her looks?
Come, give me news of the flowers.
The grass, and the trees and brooks!
Last night, when the diva flinging
Those notes of hers to the air,
I thought, will the thrush be singing
To-morrow, and I not there?
Are the daffodils all making
Their rows of yellow shoon?—
Till the singer's voice seemed breaking.
And the viols were out of tune.
So fold up the tiresome paper,
With old monotonous talk
Of routs and riots and races,
And let's go out for a walk.
What is it the buds are doing
Deep down in the secret stem,
That even with music wooing
I think and I think of them?
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Pro and Con
YOU thin giraffe, if I was you,
I'd have a hard time, I spec';
For nursie would make a great to-do
A-washin' my face an' neck.
BUT jam and the cookie-jar
Are hid on the highest shelf,
I wisht I was tall as you creatures are,
Instead of my tiny self.
