like natur' is common and tawdry and vile; He says it's a plaguey sight greater to do 'em "impressionist style."   He done me my portrait, and, reely, my nose is a ultrymarine, My whiskers is purple and steely, and both of my cheeks is light green. When Mother first viewed it she fainted—she ain't up in Art, don't yer see? And she had a notion 'twas painted when Hez had been off on a spree. We used ter think Hezzy would shame us by bein' no good anyhow, But he says some day he'l be famous, so we're sort er proud of him, now. He says that the name he's a-makin' shall ring in Fame's thunderin' tone; He says that earth's dross he's forsaken, he's livin' fer Art's sake alone. That's nice, but what seems ter me funny, and what I can't get through my head Is why he keeps writin' fer money and can't seem ter earn nary red. I've been sort er thinkin' it over, and seems ter me, certain enough, That livin' for Art is just clover, but that livin' on it is tough.  

 

     THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC 

  Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town, And we fellers are a-hootin' and a-jumpin' up and down, And the girls are all a-gigglin' and a-tryin' ter be smart, With their braided pig-tails wigglin' at the joltin' of the cart; There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes, And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons acrost his nose, And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool, And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school. Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat, And I've got one—if yer ask it—that is purty hard ter beat,—   'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone, And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone. There'll be quarts of sass'parilla; yes, and "lemmo" in a tub; There'll be ice-cream—it's vernilla—and all kinds of fancy grub; And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring, So's the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything. Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream; And a "daddy-long-legs" skippin' round the butter makes 'em scream; And a fuzzy caterpillar—jest the littlest kind they make—   Sets 'em holl'rin', "Kill her! kill her!" like as if it was a snake. Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough, Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and stuff; And the big chaps they'll set 'round 'em, lookin' soft as ever wuz, Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind always does. Then, we'll 

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