gift, To stimulate virtue by comforting thrift."    So he left all his property, legal and straight, To "the cursedest rascal in all of the State."   But the name he refused to insert, for, said he;   "Let each man consider himself legatee."    In due course of time that philanthropist died, And all San Francisco, and Oakland beside—   Save only the lawyers—came each with his claim The lawyers preferring to manage the same. The cases were tried in Department Thirteen, Judge Murphy presided, sedate and serene, But couldn't quite specify, legal and straight, The cursedest rascal in all of the State. And so he remarked to them, little and big—   To claimants: "You skip!" and to lawyers: "You dig!"   They tumbled, tumultuous, out of his court And left him victorious, holding the fort.    'Twas then that he said: "It is plain to my mind This property's ownerless—how can I find The cursedest rascal in all of the State?"   So he took it himself, which was legal and straight. 

   "DIED OF A ROSE" 

   A reporter he was, and he wrote, wrote he:     "The grave was covered as thick as could be With floral tributes"—which reading, The editor man he said, he did so:     "For 'floral tributes' he's got for to go, For I hold the same misleading."   Then he called him in and he pointed sweet To a blooming garden across the street, Inquiring: "What's them a-growing?"   The reporter chap said: "Why, where's your eyes? Them's floral tributes!" "Arise, arise,"     The editor said, "and be going." 

 

 A LITERARY HANGMAN

   Beneath his coat of dirt great Neilson loves To hide the avenging rope. He handles all he touches without gloves, Excepting soap. 

 

 AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

   As through the blue expanse he skims On joyous wings, the late Frank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims, Both bound for Heaven's high gate. In life they loved and (God knows why A lover so should sue)   He slew her, on the gallows high Died pious—and they flew. Her pinions were bedraggled, soiled And torn as by a gale, While his were bright—all freshly oiled The feathers of his tail. Her visage, too, was stained and worn And menacing and grim; His sweet and mild—you would have sworn That she had murdered him. When they'd arrived before the gate He said to her: "My dear,   

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