. Overheard in a garden. A NEW-YOEKER ? Breathes there a man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said, This is my own my native land ? Walter Scott. The man of whom I siDg was notCast in the mould of Walter Scott. Van Hatton Jones ORorkeSighs never for his native loam;Whereer his feet may chance to roamHe feels ahout as much at home As in his own New Says he, ^No matter where I go,From Baffins Bay to Borneo, From Kandahar to Cork;From pole to pole, from sea to seaNo matter where on earth I he —Something I find reminding me Of little old New York. .lu. In Switzerland t is his del

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. Overheard in a garden. A NEW-YOEKER ? Breathes there a man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said, This is my own my native land ? Walter Scott. The man of whom I siDg was notCast in the mould of Walter Scott. Van Hatton Jones ORorkeSighs never for his native loam;Whereer his feet may chance to roamHe feels ahout as much at home As in his own New Says he, ^No matter where I go,From Baffins Bay to Borneo, From Kandahar to Cork;From pole to pole, from sea to seaNo matter where on earth I he —Something I find reminding me Of little old New York. .lu. In Switzerland t is his delightTo sit upon an Alp at night, Because, as he explains,The avalanches I down the mountain side they call to mind the fitful roar Of elevated

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