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Kansas University Weekly.
who have been brave enough to withstand the allurements of the fair sex. Think, man, before it is too late. Think of getting up to build fires at five in the morning. You'll have to help get breakfast, and worst of all, think of having to wipe dishes. Bah! Imagine genius wiping dishes! And then how you will be tied down! You'll have to sit around the house every night and keep burglars away, while, if you stop before the fatal step is taken, you may still come up to this cosy Roost and enjoy the society of men, my boy, men who may be famous some day. You couldn't go out anywhere but to church, and—"
But Two-Step arose, and with a look half threatening, half pitying, interrupted Booth:
"Here, Booth, you fellows are making pretty big fools of yourselves. Were you ever married? What right have you to give advice on a subject of which you don't know even the rudiments? As for you fellows, you are all right in your way, and I have enjoyed being with you; but until you know what it is to have a woman to hover about you, and be your companion, you don't know what life is, and I feel sorry for you. Suppose we can't go anywhere but to church, isn't that far better than to come up here and burn up all the money one can scrape together, in tobacco smoke? And as for wiping dishes, I'd much rather do that than spend the same amount of time hearing you fellows try to discuss poetry and art that I don't believe you know anything about. Good-bye, fellows. I may drop in and see you occasionally, but in the meantime save your advice until you have a chance to try it yourself."
With that he vanished through the door and stillness again reigned supreme in Buzzard's Roost. CYLEGICEL.
$$
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$$
Smoke Angel.
Smoke Angel bent low under the huge bundle of freshly laundered clothes she was taking home to her customers.
"No, honey," she murmured, brushing away a tear with her horny hand, "'pears laike it aint no yuse. I'se tried an' I'se tried, but dat
money doan' nebber seem to 'cumulate. Me an' Daddy nebber see each uder agin in dis wurld, I reckon,-an' pore Daddy misses his Angel so, I know."
Smoke Angel rested her bundle on a convenient fence, and mopped her wrinkled, black face with an old, red bandana.
"An' pore Daddy misses his Angel, I know," she repeated. Her shrivelled lips rolled back, in one broad smile, from a row of white, even teeth, and a faraway look came into her brown eyes.
“—An' pore Daddy misses his Angel, I know."
The far away look in her eyes deepened. Unconsciously, she straightened herself up to her full height. She was young again—down on the old plantation! The negroes were celebrating "ole Massa's birfday;" and the dance was in full swing. She was the belle of the crowd. She flitted here and there, swinging and swaying in perfect unison with the notes from the squeaky old "fiddle." Hers was not the rude, jerky motion of the average negro, but the lithe, undulating grace of the girls of ancient Egypt, who served the muse, Terpsichore. Her eyes were afire with the exhilarating pleasure, and her lips curled in a happy smile. It was then that he had called her "My Angel—my Smoke Angel," and—
"Daddy," she sighed.
The sun was reddening the western sky. Smoke Angel again bent beneath her burden, and trudged on to the village. Her eyes looked weary and sad.
"Ef lill' Massa wuz only here," she said "he'd holp me to fin' Daddy. Lill' Massa wuz allays so good to me an' Daddy. De good Lawd holp lill' Massa, and Daddy." Her words became incoherent, but her lips still moved, and her eyes were raised reverently towards heaven.
Smoke Angel had been a slave, a happy, contented slave, until the impending Civil War had compelled her kind old master, to sell all his property. She and her husband had been separated then,—and Daddy had been sold down the river! Then came freedom; but two