The Indianapolis journal., 1904-02-07

Old Sleepy Davy-so the street boys call
him-spends his summers in town and his
winters in the poorhouse. He is born
city dweller, old Sleepy Davy
A Wicked is; and it irks his mettlesome
Blue Bird. metropolitan spirit to stay in
the hum-drum poorhouse,
away out in the stupid, countrified country
Not long ago he was out taking a little walk
in the sunshine, along the road. and he saw
a blue bird on the telegraph wire and heard
it sing "Ah," thought old Sleepy Davy,
bad old Incorporate Sleepy Davy, THAT'S
a sign o. spring-that there bird is; reck-
on it's a robin-an' I'm a-goin' back TO
town"
So the crafty old blunder-headed fellow
uacked his few belongings on the sly smug-
gled his poor little bundle of ragged clothes
out under the hedge, and took another walk
one day on the sly. which brought him
hack to town. In town, however, he found
no blue birds singing on the telegraph wires.
The city world was still frozen, cold' ana
desolate People skurried in and out or
warm houses. without looking at poverty
stricken old Davy; bad boys jeered at him,
and wicked-looking dogs snuffed at his
down-trodden heels contemptuously. Where
DAYS he was in the city one knows; he
was miserable enough, no doubt, and not at
all sorry when policeman cornered him
and ordered him back TO the country again
"Tain't my fault, boss-no. 'taint," ex-
plained old Davy, glad enough to get back
under a warm roof, where warm food and
a warm bed awaited him. Lord knows
what made that old robin fool me that-a-
cnrfn
made that bad blue robin comm a-singin'
round here?'
The man who will insist on having his
omen fire in a country where wood is said
to be getting scarce, logically runs into
more or less curious fuel
The Mysterious experiences, now and
Back-Logs. then. Steam heat is all
right, furnaces are all
right and hot-water heat is all right, too,
remarked an opnionated citizen, but Will
have one good blazing crate fire in my
house, if die for it. Nothing makes me
feel so stupid even imbecile, as sitting
around at home evening after evening, with
out any visible means of heat TO be seen.
The one open CRATE that my wife lets me
call my own is a big, deep, square. old
fashioned AFFAIR that VIII nOlu a Dig square
log of wood When the asphalt pavement
came out our way bought over hundred
of the old street-railway sleepers-big. solid
logs they are-and l intended to have
grand old time with them. After I had
them sawed UP and stacked in the shed, L
would often go in there and put my hand
fondly on them. thinking of the fine time
we were to have reading, by my blessed,
blazing old open fire. 1 could hardly wait
for winter to come.
''Well. sir, nobody knows what ails those
old logs. I'm the laughing stock not only
of my family but OF my part of the town.
They burn to be sure, but slow-well. slow
is too swift word; one old log will suck,
shoulder, sizzle, sing and just carry on for
whole day and night before it gives up
the ghost, and goes to ashes. But stay by
them, any way, and get a decent fire by
pilng on soft coal, to help the logs burn.
Don't give me away-everybody else says
they are water-logged, but 1 believe they
are petrifed. Yes, sir; I've got a shed full
of .petrified back-logs.'