And it really doesn't matter, since I'm only a consumer.

The grocer sells me addled eggs; the tailor sells me shoddy,
I'm only a consumer, and I am not anybody.
The cobbler pegs me paper soles, the dairyman short-weights me,
I'm only a consumer, and most everybody hates me.
There's turnip in my pumpkin pie and ashes in my pepper,
The world's my lazaretto, and I'm nothing but a leper;
So lay me in my lonely grave and tread the turf down flatter,
I'm only a consumer, and it really doesn't matter.




A DESPERATE RACE

BY J.F. KELLEY


Some years ago, I was one of a convivial party that met in the principal
hotel in the town of Columbus, Ohio, the seat of government of the
Buckeye state.

It was a winter's evening, when all without was bleak and stormy and all
within were blithe and gay,--when song and story made the circuit of the
festive board, filling up the chasms of life with mirth and laughter.

We had met for the express purpose of making a night of it, and the
pious intention was duly and most religiously carried out. The
Legislature was in session in that town, and not a few of the worthy