The Race

A FAMOUS auto race I write,

Upon a famous track: One auto was a blackish white, The other, whitish black.

The people crowded close, in vain;

The people cried, "I vum!" For on each lap those autos twain Were gone ere they had come!

One auto went so very fast
(As racing autos can)
It overtook itself at last;
Into itself it ran!

Regardless of that fatal end, And pulverized debris, The other auto on did wend With high velocitee.

Its choo's were only one long choo, Its gasolene did reek;

And as around the track it flew

'T was nothing but a streak!

Till such a breeze the suction made

The streak was blown away.

Wen Ah got erligion, de Mef'dis' grace

Sot in right hahd in meh lef'-han' foot; But de nurr one war n't effected sca'ce,

An' Ah has ter grab on to de right-han' boot

Er hit's sho ter switch w'en de fiddle ring An' dat somepin' in meh begin ter sing.

Why don' Ah let her switch? Why, boss,
Dat nebber do ter eben say;

Ef er nigger dance, hes soul git los'.
White folks dey 's eddicated; dey
Kin dance an' fool de debble, too;
But er nigger dat dance he git ketched sho.
Samuel L. McKee.

With little dabs of writing!

And while I hungered for some news, Some token of affection,

"A most exciting day."

Edwin L. Sabin.

When de Fiddle Ring

АH heahs young Missus call eh dance
De puffeck poetry o' motion.
She sho do fink eh moughty chance.
Erbout dat highty-tighty notion,
Er waltz er pokers er squadrilles
Er any o' dem yether frills.

Good Lawdy Massy! whut er lot

O' double duck-fits she been th'owin' Erbout dem Scottishes, an' whut

Dose German folks has got a-goin'! She lak eh two-step, too, she say. Whut 's two steps 'mount to, anyway?

But dar 's somepin' in me dat jes sing
W'en er nigger 'gin de banjer fits,
Erspeshly ef de fiddle ring

An' de foots goes swishin'. Whar Ah gits
Dat somepin' in meh 's sho to hum
Lak er big bass fiddle 'u-u-um.

Ah shets meh eyes an' heahs 'em pat

Fer siftin' san', an' Ah hol's meh bref; An' it's Juber dis an' Juber dat,

Twell Ah almos' yeahns mehse'f ter def. Back-step er shuffle er Mobile BuckHaint eh chu'ch-boun' nigger in turr❜ble luck?

A most absurd collection,

From ancient ruins, grim and charred,

To lovers, kisses plighting,

Upon a picture postal card,

With little dabs of writing!

Now tell me, please, how you would feel
To get a scrap of paper,
With nothing but the old Bastile,

Or some defunct sky-scraper;
A chromo of the Avon bard,

Or Japs and Russians fighting, Upon a picture postal card,

With little dabs of writing!.

If e'er abroad I should sojourn,

And leave those friends behind me, Oh, would n't I the tables turn!

And would n't they malign me! I'd send them "Sentinels on guard," "Columbus first land sighting," All on a picture postal card,

With little dabs of writing!

Perchance they might in language terse
Demand an explanation.
Then guilelessly would I rehearse,
“‘Mails bring great consolation';
My correspondence I retard,
The laziness indicting

That sends a picture postal card,
With little dabs of writing!"

Anne P. L. Field.