_
* * * * *
FALLEN ON THE MARCH.
You see that hoss, don't you, there, sir, ahead?
Well, that's JAKE. An hour ago,
The last trip up, he fell--stone dead:
Drop't right flat in his harness, you know.
He'd fell down, too, pooty often before,
And--I guess he won't do it, though, any more.
I allas pitied the poor old cuss;
He was mighty hard driv and terrible thin,
And many a time when he quit the 'bus
I've led the mis'rable creetur in
And giv him a reg'lar bang-up feed
That the Company thought he didn't need.
And now, to see him lyin' there
All by himself, a feast for the flies,--
Why, it kinder makes a feller's hair
Creep all over, first, then straighten and rise.
Maybe you'll say to yourself: "That's all stuff."
But I tell you what--_I_ think it's blamed rough.
It makes me feel, too, a little bit glum,
To see how everything goes on the same;
Some day, I s'pose, _my_ turn 'll come,
When I'll have to try on poor JAKE'S little game,
And they won't mind me any more, I'll bet.
Than they do him.--Off, here, sir?--G'long, JEANETTE!
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FITFUL YOUTH.
_Younger Party_. "LOOK HERE, VAN, CAN'T YOU LEAVE THOSE "PERSONALS"
ALONE, FOR A MINUTE, AND GIVE ME A CANDID OPINION ON THE BACK FIT OF MY
NEW COAT?"]
* * * * *
AUTUMN SONG.
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