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Show w ' 'Ti-nm- "-nru i . i nli i Rippling J Rhymes I By WALT MASON. v The Spring Cold. I have a cold; it should be hard to bo a cheerful sunshine bard. I'd like to croak about despair, ana rear on my hind limbs and swear; but habit Is" a wdondrous thins, and so I da'nee around and sing. My head is clogged, my eyes are sore, and every breath sounds like n snore; I'm full of fover, and my brow feels like an old Dutch oven now, and men would say I had excuse, if I should rant and raiso the deuce. But habit has me in its grip, and ao I sound my cheerful yip. For years I've plied this sunshine stunt, and kept a smiling face in front, and now, when I would make lament, I cannot do it worth a cent. I'm feeling feel-ing punk and tough as sin, but every groan ends in a grin. And this, my frionds, mcthlnks should teach that wholesome habit is a peach. I'm. glad I learned when I was young to leave the doleful dirge unsung, and chant glad ditties, span and spick, till some one hit me with a brick, to push gay ballards through my beard, until the peelers interfered. nn |