pens, American blotting paper, American gum, American paper fasteners, American notions, An American pattern of Ode, And Heaven knows what besides. I am all American. I can whistle the "Star-Spangled Banner," I can, really! Shake! I like you, There are no flies on you. How are Mr. Roosevelt and all at home? Is Pierpont keeping hearty? Do you miss Carnegie—much? Have you seen the Amur'can eagle at the Zoo? Is Monroe's docterin' Good for dyspepsia? And it's O to be at home On the rolling perarie, With one's money well invested in English concerns, Run by British labour, And paying good old, fruity, nourishing British dividends! 

 

 

   TO THE "MUDDIED OAF" 

 My dear Muddied Oaf,— While still a youth and all unknown to fame, I went to school. And on a certain Saturday I put on a beautiful blue jersey, and some striped knickers, And betook myself into a damp field With my hands nice and clean, And my hair parted. Within an hour's time My shins had the appearance of a broken paint can, My garments were covered with mud, One of my teeth had somehow got swallowed, And my hair was out of joint. When I come to think of it, In that hour I must have been a Muddied Oaf, Though I did not know what to call myself. And no doubt on that and successive Saturday afternoons I won my various journalistic Waterloos, And contracted a stubborn cardiac hypertrophy Which is even yet with me. For nigh twenty years, however, I have never, to my knowledge, Taken part in a football match; And, in spite of Mr. Kipling, I do not propose to indulge again In either Rugby or the other thing. Youth loves to be muddied; In old age one flings one's mud at other people. I don't know, my dear Muddied Oaf, How you like being called a Muddied Oaf. The average Muddied Oaf of my acquaintance Will not in the least understand What Muddied Oaf means, And even when a dozen reporters Have explained it to him, dictionary in hand, He will not care. You cannot take the glory of having crumpled up the Footleum Otspurs out of a man By calling him Muddy; And as for Oaf, When all is said It is a poor synonym for "dashing forward." No, my dear boy, Phrases out of poems cannot damp your ardours. And, so far as you are concerned, Mr. Rudyard Kipling May Be Blowed! All the same, I assure you As an old muddifier That there is a great deal in what the gentleman says. To a delicate age, Rifle practice presents many attractions: To shoot out of a No. 1 rifle At a choice array of clay pipes, dancing globules, and cardboard rabbits Is on the face of it A gentleman's job: You can do it with your hair parted: And providing you don't get betting drinks That 

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