“I can’t understand how men can put those nasty pipes and cigarettes to
their lips,” she mourned, and then bent to kiss the little bundle of life
in her lap. And the poodle dog, sympathizing, snuggled closer against its
mistress’ swan-like neck and wagged its little tail.
_Our Rural Mail Box_
=Smokehouse Friends=—Ye editor has received many calls for the following
poems, and would appreciate receipt of correct copies of them: “Johnnie
and Frankie,” “Arkansaw” and the prose of the Irishman lecturing with
lantern slides the story of Cleopatra.
* * * * *
=Anna Dine=—Snow again, Anna, I don’t get your drift.
* * * * *
=Mickey Finn=—There is nothing to the rumor that the girls will wear
blacksmiths’ aprons for bathing suits this summer.
* * * * *
=Howe Hevah=—“The Skin Game” is not the name of a play. It is a
profession indulged in by beauty doctors.
* * * * *
=Mac=—If the brass finger bowls are not large enough, would suggest that
bushel baskets be used.
* * * * *
=Shimmy Dancer=—If you do, we’ll take off our jumper and overhalls.
* * * * *
=Kitty Korn=—I can’t place you, but I knew your father, Pop Korn.
* * * * *