"DON'T Kill Your Wife With Cooking, Let us do it for you!" was the motto that Luke Spears had hung in his lunch room until the day Orville Bates brung in that ornery worman of his and dimmanded that Luke kill her like the sign promised he would. It never struck anybody that way before, and Luke takened it down in a hurry before some of the other menfolks hereabouts got the same idy as Orville.

Most general, Luke gets most of his business whenever the wormenfokes are having a sociable, like a bazaar at the meeting house or a meeting of the Ladies Aid. Several of our ladies hereabouts figger that at such times Luke's place is a fine thing. In the first place the men-fokes have got someplace to go eat supper, and in the second place they're pretty happy about the cooking to home fer about the next three months after jest one meal at Luke's.

Luke's place, is a kind of local museum, part on account of that lekatric pianny he got sold one time in Kansas City. Luke liked the way it made music and bought one right off, but somehow he forgot to remember that there wasn't no leckatricity here to home until he tried to find a light socket and could only locate coal oil lamps. Since that time he has used it to hold up the ferns and the rubber plant. One of the fellers was saying the other day that Luke has used some of the pianny strings to strengthen the counter stools, which have needed it real bad.

One thing we never been able to finger out about Luke's place is the way he always seems to be fresh out of most everything he's got offered on that eating card. The card promises you everything from fillit mignuns to Jerusalem artychokes, but the minute you try to order anything that aint baked beans or a ham sanrich you're going to find that Luke "sold the last order not moren five minutes ago!"