The Arkansaw traveler., 1884-12-27
Ror The Arkdntaw TrdveLey.
 A CHRISTMAS LYRIC.
BY H. S. KELLER.

oI H. AELLEAs
 If didn't have deep and undying re- gard for an already overburdened public, would give you the case in hand done up in vellum and calf, and dainily en- woven with sweet morsels of poesy. That is to say, would, were soulful poet. Thank heaven, am not poet 1 may have dallied with the tuneful muse during moments of mental abandonment. For those little transitory skits a man is not to blame. However, so far as my knowledge of lucid intervals is concerned, have never sprung quantity of elon- gated gush, merrily-tripping, madly- prancing, or mys,ically-confusing stanzas to glow for brief period, and then be laid away among the musty archives of oblivion like autumn leaves among the pages of holy writ.
 Nay! do not gush poetry at every pore, as a rural postmaster oozes cleo tion returns from the four quarters of the United States.
 The blissful day of gorgeous stuf6ng. gift-making and unlimited drink finally dawns. have long waited for this day. Upon this day, the most glorious of the three sixty-6ve, my amiable wife visits her respected mother in the adjacent county.
 Hence, l celebrate with the boys!
 To celebrate with the boys during a holiday hath deeper meaning than human brain wots of-unless you've been there.
 There is lingering trace, sort of a hesitancy, faltering remnant in every mans mind who has ever celebrated with the boys, not at all conducive to spiritual calm, but on the contrary it bears fruit slightly tinged with moral turpitude.
 To indulge in the lavish availability of kindred sports on Christmas, means en- larged craniums by the bright light and a general curtailment of pecuniary affairs for several weeks to come-not to men, ton beautifully-sunset tinted eyes and preached nasal organs.
 went down to the usual resort for a Christmas frolic. The finest turkey I ever saw in all my life sat upon one end of the bar in undressed uniform. That turkey would have blushed could it have gazed upon itself. It had less garment ure than when it picked its way through its shell clad in the pin feathers of bon hommie youth.
 The boys told me the bird was up at raffie. The bar-keeper urged me to take chance. did. won the fowl. The first round of sauce to season that turkey cost me $7.5o.
 felt good so did the boys.
 The bar-keeper gave me fifty cents for the turkey. He started the raf1e. Ihad number, and won the turkey. More sauce to season the fowl, S7.5o. This playful business kept on in the usual don't-care--if-the-old-lady-is-away-style- you bet More raffle, more turkey, more rounds of sauce.
 Never had such luck in all my life. Won that turkey every pop.
 We continued in the foregoing beaten track till the sparrow hopped the twig.
 Somebody carried me home and put me in pickle.
 My wife reached home about the same time, and
 The storm has passed, and we speak as we pass pie across the table.
 Oh, yes, the turkey?
 Paper machee, my boy, paper machee.
 Some one else'll get roped in next Christmas, suppose.
 Will it be this mild-eyed gaelic?
 Not if this feet-limbed fawn of the wildwood wots.
 I What's the matter with going to my mother-in-law's next Christmas where the turkies are pure quill2 l