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Newspaper Page Text
chase potatoes, . apples, cabbage,
sweet potatoes, melons and flour in
car-load' lots direct from producers
and cut out the middleman. Eggs,
butter, lard, coffee and tea and other
necessities come-in case lots. Their
credit is good and producers are anx
ious to supply their wants.
The accompanying illustration was
made several days ago when a car
of potatoes arrived in Cincinnati
The representatives of the league are
always on hand on these occasions
and supervise the unloading. They
even try their own hand at the work.
The potatoes were retailing at $1.35
per bushel; the women in the league
got theirs for 80 cents per bushel.
It was a joyous New Year's cele
bration we had, old chap, and until
midnight all arrangements were car
ried out splendidly. I had the honor
of proposing the toast at the stroke
of twelve. When the crucial moment
came imagine our horrified surprise
when a fellow at the table who was
once heavily identified with horse
racing interests leaped to his feet
and pronounce this toast:
"Here's gurgling to the New Year,
the niftiest filly that planted her
south clothespin on the getaway,
tape for the Twelve-month Sweep
stakes. Old Daddy Time, the peer
less jockey, is in the saddle, ready to
lash the nag with his chin burr
catchers. It's a lead pipe, boys, that
1914 is going to collar the silks in
this race, and I'm laying my whole
bundle of frogskins that she'll shag
to the home stretch with her neck
doing a spotted giraffe out ahead of.
that bunch of selling platers, spare
ribs and' also rans! Bang! goes the
cannon! They're off! Yip, yip, yip
THE WINTER LEAGUE
By Bertqn Braley.
When Spring comes dancing down
As lightly as a rabbit
Each sporting sheet I chance to see
Most eagerly I grab it;
I read the dope from A to Z;
It is, in fact, a habit.
But, oh, this blooming winter league
Infuses me with vast fatigue.
I know that sporting news is scant
Upon this well-known planet,
But all this winter baseball cant
There should be laws to bann it;
It makes me rave, it makes me rant;
Why can't the writers can it?
But, no they make us blindly grope x
Through reams and reams and. reams
oi aope: .
When play begins Fm always there
Upon the bleachers squirmin',
But till that time I do not care
How Tinker fares withHerrman;
Let magistrates loudly rare and tear;
My attitude I'm nrm in;
This pother fills me with fatigue
Please take away your winter league!