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THE ATL ANTI AN 21 Fall Shoes for Men We are receiving daily the best and $ latest styles in Me n Shoes all leathers black or tan either for dress wear or hard service. Give us a trial and you will always be a customer. R. a BLACK * Agents Edwin Clapp Shoes 35 Whitehall Street THE PHANTOM CAT. NO PLACE FOR GABRIEL. HOMESICK. Homesick ain’t like th’ other sicks You get an’ hafto go to bed An’ drink th’ stuff th’ drug stores mix, Or have things tied aroun’ your head, An’ when your ma she wash your face An use th’ silver bresh an’ comb To comb you, an’ she fill a vase With flowers, ’cause you’re sick at home. Homesick ain’t med’cine sick at all; It ain’t a sick like stummick ache 'At make you double up an’ bawl An’ say you didn’t eat th’ cake, Until your conscience it ache, too, Nen you con-fess, an’ your ma smile An’ say she got a joke on you . Buhcause she know it all th’ while. Homesick ain’t when they see your tongue Or feel your pulse, or your ears buzz, Or doctor listens at your lung— But, oh, how much you wisht it wuz! Homesick is when you go away A-visitin’ all by yourself. An’ miss th’ clock ’at ought to stay A-tickin’ on th’ mantel-helf. An’ folks tell stories to you, too, An’ try their best to make you laugh. Th’ wind cries in th’ chimbley flue, An’ in th’ barnyard is a calf ’At bawls an’ bawls. An’ worst part yet Is all th’ time how well you know, No matter how homesick you get An’ want to go home, you can’t go. Wilbur D. Nesbit in Harper’s. SIGNS AND SUPERSTI TIONS. A pink regret, inclosed in a pack age of yourow n poetry received in a Monday morning mail, is a sure sign that some editor somewhere is steeped ir. sorrow. It is also ominous that your manuscript will shortly go off on another journey, says Puck. The Chinese believed that it is un lucky to have the roof blown off your house on a Wednesday. This supersti tion is shared also by the Russians and the natives of the Andaman Is lands. If a pot of red paint falls off the roof after five o’clock on Saturday afternoon and lands on your best Sun day clothes it is an infallible sign that you will not wear the latter to church on Sunday morning. It is an almost certain sign that you are going to lose money before long, if you meet a member of the Maflaor some Black Hand operator in a dark alley ten blocks from a policeman on a wet night in July. An intoxicated cook on Sunday means an empty kitchen on Monday, except in the suburbs, where, in ac cordance with the principle laid down by that great philospher, Robert Burns, they hold that “a cook's a cook for a’ that!” ‘ THE UPWARD LOOK. Two men looked out from prison bars. One saw mud, the other stars. MORE LOVE—LESS DIVOR CES. More of our rich papas in America should follow the same manner of testing the affections of the adventur ous, commercial-minded, moneyless wife-hunters—both those of our own nationality as well as the empty-head ed, titled foreigners who are "ramp ing” on our hunting grounds—that “Uncle Zeke” did in Austin some time since, says Judge Library. After sev eral months of violent protestations of love made for his daughter, it was at last understood that the father was, at their marriage, to give his daughter a house and lot. "Uncle Zeke” was a sly old coon, and, to test his future son-in-law’s affections, he said, as they were smoking their pipes: "Mr. Crow, I has been cogitatin’ an, has come to de ’elusion not to donate Matildy dat ar house an’ lot on Aus tin avenue.” Mr. Crow sprang to his feet, and, sticking his stovepipe hat on the side of his head, said: “In dat case, sah, our future rela tions done ceased to exist from dis moment, sah.” “But, Mr. Crow, I was gwine to say ” “Oh, go hire a hall an’ invite yer friends to attend de meetin’!” “All right, Mr. Crow. Our relations has done ceased to exist, but I only wanted to say dat dat house am too small, so I am gwine to gib Matildy dat two-story cottage on Peacon street, wuf twict as much.” Jim tried to explain, also; but when “Uncle Zeke” solemnly lifted a boot the size of a ham and pointed to the door, James Crow refused to linger. PLENTY OF IT. When Mr. Nobbs toured through Ire land in a jaunting car he thought it was an economical way of having a quiet little jaunt on his own, says Cassel’s. Dennis was a born jarvey. What he didn’t know about horses, driving and charges wasn’t worth consider ing, and Mr. Nobbs, in the ignorance of his English heart, paid up without a murmur, but he often wondered why the Item “Refreshments for the horse, 2d” occured so frequently. Ap parently the animal was having a good time. “What are all these amounts for re freshments for the horse?” asked Mr. Nobbs one day of the wily Dennis. “Och, shure,” was the quick reply, "it’s whipcord, it is!” HIS MOTHER - IN - LAW THREATENED. The Black Hand society wrote a man a letter demanding that he put one thousand dollars in a barrel on the corner of X and Z Streets at nine o’clock on Friday night, or they would blow up the beautiful home of his wife’s mother. Instead of the money the man put a note In the barrel: “Nothing do ing in the money line, but the propo sition you suggest interests me.” “Didn’t I tell ye to feed that cat a pound of meat every day until ye had her fat?” demanded an Irish shop keeper, nodding toward a sickly cat, says Tit-Bits. “Ye did thot,” replied his assistant, “an’ I’ve just been after feedin’ her a pound of meat this very minute.” “Faith, an’ I don’t believe ye. Bring me the scales.” The poor cat was lifted into the scales. They balanced at exactly one pound. “There!” exclaimed the assistant tri umphantly. “Didn’t I tell ye she’d had her pound of meat?” “That’s right,” admitted the boss, scratching his head. “That’s yer pound of meat, all right. “But”-—sud denly looking up—“where the devil is the cat?” FOOLED HIM. Katie, who had been taught that the dt-vil tempts little girls to disobey, was left alone in a room for,a time one day with the admonition not to touch a particularly delicious plate of fruit that stood on the table, says' the Housekeeper. For a while she bravely withstood the temptation. Finally, however, her resolution wavered and she took a big red apple from the plate. She walked away with it but before putting it to her lips her courage returned, and she quickly replaced the apple on the plate, saying as she did so, “Aha! Mr. Devil, I fooled you, didn’t I?” H. K. Adair, the Western detective, was discussing a Cleveland crime whereupon he had failed, says the Washington Star. “I take no shame to myself,” said Mr. Adair, apologetically, “for having failed on this Cleveland matter. The Cleveland crooks, you know, are the best in the business.” He relighted the stub of his cigar. “You know what John B. Gough said about Cleveland,” he continued, with a faint smile. “In taking leave of the town Gough said, solemnly: “ ‘If the Angel Gabriel happens to light in Cleveland there will be no resurrection, for some Cleveland crook will steal his trumpet before he can blow a single blast.’” A REALIST. “I am a great believer in realism," remarked the poet, according to the New York Times. “Yes?” we queried with a rising inrising inflection, thereby giving him the desired opening. “I sometimes carry my ideas of real ism to a ridiculous extreme,” con tinued the poet. “Indeed!” we exclaimed inanely, somewhat impatient to reach the point of his witticism. “Yes,” continued the poet, “the oth er day I wrote a sonnet to the gas company and purposely made the me ter defective.” At this point we fainted.