The Sun

The Hon. Zentlow B. Frr, the bard of Sand Bill, the ringer of "The Scrub Cow's Knell" and the chief glory of Tar Heel literature, has produced in "Fain Would Fly" a work worthy of himself and destined to be dear to the English reading world.

I'm walking along the roadside,
I'm whistling as I walk to-night.
I'm thinking, but not of whistles,
I'm thinking of Sadie's dimples
I'm whistling a song of praise.
I'm whistling of a rosy face,
Of cherry lips, of figure lithe
Of saucy black twinkling winking eyes
Saucy boon and turquoise sky
Out I wail, I wish to die.
Walk, I fain would ride.
By me to one happy side
Rise her in adding his old tar kiln
Now glow rises over the hill.
Sing love eh horse so in I'll sing.
See silver a kiss Tom Sater's Pipe
The silvery moon turns to the color of rust. The turquoise sky is green with agony. Over the hill from the old tar kiln comes father with an angry glow and on firing bent.

'Tis midnight he comes up to the well.
If he find me here well, I'll catch hell.
Oh the rusted tar breasted old son of a gun.
Swears I shall never become his son."

Mr. Farr's readers will insist that the idyl shall not end in cataclysm and disaster, but its homely vigor, tang and originality almost reconcile us to this dark and tragic close.