GLUMBY'S CART-HORSE

Reprinted from the "New York Tribune"

(The horse speaks)

Oats in a nosebag, hung about my head,

I'm resting now, they've shut me in my stable.
Till Glumby comes I have no whip to dread,
And now I'll say my say as I am able.

Strange creatures are my masters, weak and frail,
On their hind feet they walk, with heads held high;
And yet they master me and make me quail,

Though I could crush them as I'd crush a fly.

How well I love my friends and dread. my foes,
I think of both as I stand here alone;
The kindly errand-boy who pats my nose,
Or cross-ey'd Jim who hits me with a stone.

I'm not a handsome horse, I'm not a pet,
I'm only a poor drudge that draws a cart;
I get more blows than compliments, and yet
Under my lean old ribs there beats a heart.

That good gray mare that draws the dustman's cart, I love to meet her, joy then fills my cup;

But when about to offer her my heart,

Crack goes the whip and Glumby yells "git up."

The saucy sparrow has his liberty;

Why don't they make him work? He has no friends The cat and dog are cared for, yet they're free, But the poor horse's bondage never ends.

I haul my load down Broadway, but I dread
The racket and the roaring and the “ruction.”
I think that in their Bible something's said

Of the "broad way that leadeth to destruction.”

Is there a Heaven for horses? I don't know,

My masters say they go there when they die. It's not like Heaven for horses here below, — It's far more like the other place, say I.

I have no hope, I hardly have much dread;
I know the end, it will not vex me sore;
Dragged to the boneyard, knocked upon the head,
And then a painless rest for evermore.

THE LADY AND THE BURGLAR

The lady, having looked under her bed every night, seeking for a burglar, at last finds what she was looking for. She says to him:

Come out here this moment; it's no place for you, sir, You nasty black burglar-man under the "beddy." I've just caught the sight of your big hobnailed shoe, sir,

Sticking out near the cradle Miss Smith gave to Freddie.

How did you get in here? The doors are shut tight

now,

You came down the chimney and that's why you're black, sir;

You came uninvited; that was not polite, now;

I wonder you don't get ashamed and sneak back, sir!

Give up that dark-lantern and butcher-knife cruel, Now come without kicking or bumping your head there

Or you'll be upsetting the milk jug and gruel,

For that's where I keep them, just under the bed there.

That's right, come come out quietly, -oh, but you're horrid!

Why, I thought every robber was tall and romantic, Like a darling young preacher with high classic forehead,

But you are so ugly you'd soon drive me frantic.

Sit down in the rocking chair, don't make a noise now,
You'll rouse little Polly or Freddie her brother;
Has your wife any babies? I've two little boys now,
And if you come next year I'll show you another.

Are you there, my dear mother? This murdering villain I found "lurking privily" under the bed, ma'am; Keep out of his reach, for his trade is just-killing; Don't ask him to supper, he might break your head, ma'am.

But he can't find the bonds if he looks till he's weary, And Fred's clothes would not fit such a great, hulking fellow,

So be off, Mister murderer! march, do you hear me? Pack out in the rain; I'll not lend the umbrella!

the lines are fine and delicate. Also, the recently discovered method of "steel-facing" a copperplate materially increases its lasting powers. This "steel-facing" is an electro-plating process, which lays an extremely thin film of steel over the etched plate.

Sometimes an artist will make his etching artificially rare by destroying his plate after printing a very few impressions; but, in any case, there is a limit to the number of really good proofs which any plate will yield, and, provided that the etching is a fine work of art, these proofs are almost certain to increase in value in proportion as they become scarce and difficult to procure. For this reason a collection of etchings, intelligently purchased, may be regarded rather as a safe investment than as a mere fruitless outlay.

No one can fully appreciate or enjoy what he does not understand; and, when once etchings are thoroughly understood from the technical side, their further study from the artistic point of view will be found both easy and delightful.

Good etchings are veritable works of art; they are accessible to all, and their value is permanent; and if these rudimentary notes should lead some readers to study the subject in its higher aspects, the writer will feel that he has contributed something toward adding a new and very real pleasure to their lives.

PITFALLS FOR TRANSLATORS

Reprinted, by permission, from “The Critic”

EMEMBERING that there is no danger so

much to be feared as an unsuspected one, I venture to make a few suggestions to some of the American and English translators of French books, confining these suggestions to a peculiarly dangerous class of French words; namely, those which are identical, or nearly so, with words in the English, but of which the meanings differ more or less widely. And it is the apparent simplicity of such words which makes them the pitfalls into which unwary or inexperienced translators may fall to the sad detriment of the French author's meaning.

The following list is the result of years of reading, observation, and note-taking; but I am aware that in publishing it I may be digging another sort of pitfall for myself, and that it might be easy to confute me here and there out of the dictionary. The best dictionaries such as the Century or Littré's sometimes bewilder one by their very copiousness, and a simple word may be strained so as to mean almost anything; so that the translator, unless he can supplement his academic knowledge of French with an intimate colloquial knowledge also, is often actually mis