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Show A SAGEBRUSH PRINTER I met nn old man on the street, Whose feet could scarcely go; "Goe whiz" I cried, "that must be Pete From far off Idaho." He was the foreman ot the Press, ' And I the local Ed. ( He's ninety years of age, I guess, And surely should bo dead." ' j I left him drunk, years, years ago. In that far distant land; "The same old drunk," I whispered j low, . And took him by the hand. "Why, Pete," I cried, "they're mighty few As chipper as yourself; Will thirty ever come to you And put you on the shelf? "What Is the secret of your lovo Of this dark vale of woe? You should be singing psalms above Or shov'Ung coal below. "Why are you here at ninety years, When better men are dead?" "The secret ot my youth appears Quite plain to me," he said, , ,. r -W".a -"Ive lived for ninety years, alack! , Drunk half the time, by Jinks! I've chnnged from bad to good and back. But nover changed my drinks! ' "Then just this once," I cried In glee; A drug store bar wo mndoi It was an aiwful thing to see Old Pete drink lemonade. It was a fatal change, nnd when His typo ot life It pled, Ho curled up on the floor, and then Curled up again and died! J. M. H. In Chicago Press Club. |