J. Archibald McKackney
The wine cup shall not pass our lips;
Down with the horrid brew.
We promise too, dear teacher, that
All whiskers are taboo."
I assured Miss Hulda Barnstable that I had no designs on the morals of the youth of Lemuel Wilkins Island. Then, as diplomatically as possible, I tried to show her that she was playing the very deuce with the throne itself, that Wilkins without his whiskers could not last two minutes, and that the traditions of ages had established the system of choosing monarchs by this hirsute qualification, and that by virtue of his unique red whiskers he was a good deal more than a common or garden potentate of mortal origin. "My dear young woman," I told her with a good deal of feeling, "let him alone. He is a first-rate king, and he enjoys it, or did until you began to mix yourself into affairs of state."
Miss Hulda Barnstable bit her lip and looked me very straight between the eyes as she retorted:
"Mr. Hank Wilkins will not cut off his
