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long. He was going to ask his neighbor for further information on the subject, but when he turned around toward the Gopher he saw that the little animal had in some way gotten possession of the soup-tureen, and had thrust his head into it, and was almost drowning because he could not get it out. And then, just as the ex-Pirate and Tommy had rescued the Gopher from a soupy grave, the Lion arose at the head of the table, and pounded loudly on the board and called the assembled multitude to order.
When silence had spread over the room, the King of Beasts announced that the Goat had eaten the passenger list and other important notices off the bulletin board, and that it was thus impossible for him as toast-master to know who was present and who was not, and so he could not call on any one by name to make a speech. He added, however, that any one who desired to make a speech might do so, or, instead of a speech, any animal could sing a song or tell a story. Having made this announcement, the Lion sat down again; and all the animals glared frowningly upon the Goat, who stroked his whiskers nervously and looked embarrassed, either because of these rebuking glances or possibly because of the antediluvian ink on the passenger list.
"I feel awfully sorry for that Goat," whispered the Gopher to Tommy.
"Why don't you get up and make a speech then, and distract the general attention?"
"I don't know any speech," answered the Gopher; "but I know a joke."
"Tell the joke," urged Tommy; and so the Gopher stood up in his chair, and took off his pink sun-bonnet, and said he wanted to tell his joke.
A STORY OF CORN-BREAD AND CROWS.
BY DORA READ GOODALE.
Two sportsmen one morning, right dashing to view In velvet and buckskin from helmet to shoe. Were passing the field where the river runs by, When they chanced in the distance a figure to spy-- Such a figure as farmers, from time out of ken, Convinced that in clothes is the measure of men, Have fashioned in spring-time of brushwood and hay For the cheating of Solons more crafty than they.
"Sir Scarecrow; behold him!" the first hunter cries-- "What a marvel of rags which a Jew would despise! Here's a fig for the bird that so witless appears When he's lived among Yankees a good fifty years-- If the fowl really flies that his corn-bread would miss For a wooden-legged, broken-backed puppet like this! Come, choose a few nubbins to roast on the spot, While I pepper his crown with a capful of shot."
Now the farmer that morning was tilling his soil, Flushed, ragged, and sunbrowned, and grimy with toil, When pausing a moment, as all farmers will, He spied our two friends coming over the hill. "Good land!" quoth the rustic, "a nice thing it is Fer two city fellers to ketch me like this!" Then, dropping his hoe, he exclaims with a grin, "Young chaps, I'll be blessed ef I don't take you in!"
So, urging his slow wits to cope with the case, He jerks his old hat down to cover his face, Stretches limb like a windmill that spreads to the breeze, Draws his fists up like turtles and stiffens his knees; Yet a tremor of fun through the homespun appears As the sound of that parley floats back to his ears, And the honest ears burn as it calls up the words Which declare that in plumes is the making of birds!
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