By Trench and Trail in Song and Story Part 12

When the sun in golden glory Hath descended in the west, They indulge in song and story Till they seek their bunks for rest:

There to dream of scenes of childhood, Amid mountain stream or glen, Till old Sol in morning splendor Calls them to their tasks again.

Soft and soothing are the voices As the shades of evening fall, Stealing gently through the forest-- Brooding calmly over all.

By yon lake a loon is calling And the night bird answers back, Keeping vigil o'er the slumbers Of the weary lumberjack.

O, the lumberjack is loyal And he'll surely see to it, In the grind against the Kaiser That each axe will "do its bit";

He will spruce up for the allies Till ten thousand airplanes hum, All to win the war for freedom And democracy, by gum!

Chorus

Grind your axes, O my heroes, Point your peavies, file your saws, Let your ropes and chains and cables Be examined now for flaws: Fire up the iron donkey Till each rivet feels the strain, Lumberjack will help the Allies Win the war with s.h.i.+p and plane!

PADDY THE BOOK AGENT

Air

LARRY O'GAFF

The sun rose in splendor one foine summer morning That marked me first effort at selling a book.

It's rays with soft beauty the landscape adorning Sint thramps to seek bliss in some cool shady nook.

But no such rethrate the hot moments beguiling Afforded relief to poor Pathrick O'Reilly, Who canva.s.sed that day epidermis parboiling In air that would stifle a Florida cook.

I ambled along wid me pack on me shoulder, And prayed for a cloud to o'ershadow me path: Says I to meself, if it doesn't grow cowlder Poor Pat you'll be afther sure milting to death.

I entered a town an' the first house I came to Looked much loike O'Grady's, I intered the same to, And called for the misthress, though troth half ashamed to, An' sat for a moment to catch at me breath.

Be the council o' Cork I was not long awaiting, The misthress appeared, looking black as a rook.

"The devil ye are wid yer impertince satin, Yerself in me kitchen," she said wid a look.

Says I, "How is your rheumatiz, Mrs. O'Grady?"

And then quite politely I asked, "Can ye rade ye Ould hathen, if not be me troth ye are nady; Ye want to be afther sure buyin' a book."

She looked quite intint at aich bould handsome fature, And warm as it was, I could see that she shook.

"O'll tache ye a lesson," she scramed, "Ye vile crature, Ye cross twixt an ape an' a Bowery street crook!"

She jumped at me troat thin an' would you belave me, As quick as a wink through the dure did she have me, And howled as I struck--will her tones ever lave me?-- "The divil fly off wid yerself an' yer book."

I left a square inch of me cheek at O'Grady's, An' limped wid the rest to the house just fornint.

A winch in the dureway was paling some praties, Who watched me approach wid a quizzical squint.

Says I wid the best of me Chesterfield graces, "Good day me fair maid, ain't it hotter than blazes,"

An' coaxingly swate I did ask, "If ye plaze, Miss, To ordher a piece av me illigant print!"

Thank G.o.d for his gifts! this colleen was a daisy, Who flashed me a glance from her eyes of deep blue; And smiling so swately said, "Pathrick, go aisy, I see ye were born where the blarney stone grew."

"O yes, I was born in ould Ireland, G.o.d bless ye, The compliment sure makes me long to caress ye, And now be me troth I am timpted to press ye To take all me books an' the book agent too!"

We published the bans then to tell Oi'm not minding, Our lips did the printing as ach wint to press-- The type was O. K. and O. K. was the binding, The sthrongest av bonds are two hearts that caress.

The saints be adored for the joys they were sending-- The angels be bless'd on our nuptials attending-- For nothing can aquel in loife till its ending The gift of a mate loike the wan I possess!

[Ill.u.s.tration: I am now one Lumberjack.]

JEAN LABONNE.

I am now one lumberjack, Rosemarie, An' I live in tumble shack By some tree; Twice a year I leave ma lair, Wit' the fir spines in ma hair, An' win' up at Totem Square, Seattlee.

CHORUS

O, I'm good wan all aroun', Rosemarie; I'm de bes' man on de Soun'

Wit' peavie.

In de suns.h.i.+ne or de wreck I am always on de deck, Jean Labonne from ol' Kebec-- Dat is me!

On de fourt' of each July, Rosemarie; An' w'en Chris'mas day come nigh, You can see Ev'ry lumber son of gun On de States of Was.h.i.+ngton Jus' lak Jean Baptiste Labonne, On de spree!

I am call' de "Skook.u.m Kid,"

Rosemarie; I'm grease lightning on de skid Yes siree; I can "team" or "tend de hook,"

I can "bark" or "fall" or "buck,"

An' w'en whisky's down de cook I'm "cookee!"

O, you'd lak for tak' one ride, Rosemarie; Do'n de steep ol' mo'nta'n side 'Long wit' me; Dare is notting lak a jog Do'n dat mo'nta'n on a log Clinging to an iron dog, Hully gee!

But w'en Skook.u.m leave de rail, Rosemarie; For an independen' trail Thru de tree; Den you see somebodda jomp Lak de dev' along de dump, An' climb up on wan beeg stump, Dat is me!

CANADIANS GUARD YOUR OWN.

During the Boer War at a time when the British forces were suffering severe reverses a certain Quebec paper stated that the British Empire was built on "feet of clay" and predicted that it would, like its Babylonian prototype, suffer a sudden fall.

We trust it's a long long way to that "fall," and thank G.o.d the dear old flag still waves.

"On feet of clay," false prophets say, "On feet of clay, the Empire stands"; Great Power which braves tempestuous waves For Freedom's cause in many lands.

Write not again, misguided pen, Write not again our "woes" upon.

Compare us not with that vain sot Whose misrule doomed old Babylon.

Is it because you love their laws, Is it because you love the Boer, You thus a.s.sail with bitter wail The flag which waves your country o'er?