Judge — November 5, 1881 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE JUDGE. CONNUBIAL. “« Wits the waves are hushed and the winds are low, And the starry splendors of night are furled, And the sweet dawn kindles the beacon glow On the beetliug walls of yon mountain world "— ©, then does your darling rouse your ire, ‘With a nudge in the ribs and a random kick, And lovingly murmurs: ‘Hal, make the fire, For your poor little precious is tired and sick.” ‘Then grabbing your clothes, you bounce about, And shivering dress in the frigid room; And you blast the day you were such a lout ‘As to kindle a flame to seal your doom. 1. 0.1L YOU HEAR ME! We have all met the man who knows ce- lebrities and is always boasting of it. “ What, Forrest? Did I know Forrest? Glorious old Ned! Well, I should rather say I did know Edwin, We have had many a bowl together. Gruff fellow, sometimes, but he never got mad at me but once, and that was when I formally addressed him as Mr. Forrest. He wouldn't *Call me Ned,’ he roared, in that voice which used to make the pit tremble, ‘or never more be officer of mine!’ He had al- ways called me William, but I hesitated some- times about employing the same familiar style toward him until he set me right in that impetuous way of his, I shall never forget one night when he’n June Booth—Booth the elder, you know—were making a night of it together, singing songs and telling storics, when who should come in but Mac—Macready, you understand. It wasn’t long after that Astor Place riot, and Forrest was pretty sore about it. I expected there would be a row right away, but there wasn't, We were all four pretty full, and too good-natured to fight, anyhow. ‘Is there any (hic) place for me?’ asked Macready, trying to wedge in between me and Ned. ‘Yes,’ said Forrest, ‘ Astor Place.’ Then we all laughed. ‘Be sure your riot, then go (hic) head,’ said Macready, who immediately called on the drinks for the whole party. Buck Read? Did I know Buck? Well, I should suffuse to repeat. I know’d Buck before he writ a line of poetry or touched his hand toa brush. Didn't he read to me his ‘Sheridan's Ride’ the very mornin’ he writ it, and before he had shown it to anybody? He did, and don’t you wipe it from the tablets of your memory. And what's more, I showed the first copy of it to Phil—Sheridan, you know. A great friend of mine before and after the war. This was at a little private supper Annie Louise—Cary, you understand —gave us in Chicago. I tell you I've known all the celebrated people that was worth knowing. You hear me!”—Cincinnati Satur- day Night. Sowe men are too mean for anything. There is old Joe Crane, of Sixteenth strect, for in- stance. A friend took him up to Union Square the other night to note the beautiful effect of the elevated electric light. ‘‘ See,” said he, “the light upon the whole square and far down the side streets is fully equal to that shed by a full and unclouded moon. Sec how beautifully the leaves and twigs of the trees are thrown upon the asphalt walks; the shadows look like unique designs in old lace, or a highly wrought errpet under our feet, and we have it every night. How does it strike you?” “Wal,” replied Joe, squirting tobacco juice upon some of the shadow embroidery, “it's all right, I s'pose, but ‘taint half so cheap as moonlight is.” THE brow of Jersey justice corrugated dreadfully the other ¢ An attempt wes made by an artful tailor who had a case before a justice of the peac: to bribe the court with a waistcoat. Had it been a whole suit, the tailor’s suit might have gone differently. Served him right. He ought to have known better. Justice should be clothed, even to the eyes, We wish to engage a few poets to write ex- clusively in “The every-day-young-man "style. Tue Jupce thinks the business might be worked up successfully if the requisite amount of brain power was brought to bear upon it. A Mopest Request. Traxr—Say, missus, won't yer please give a poor ole broken-down tramp a nice cup of coffee, an’ a good tenderloin steak, an’ some buckicheat cakes with real maple syrup, ‘cos “lasses goes agin’ me—say, won't yer ? Pity the Tal-Madge of Brooklyn could not be over-Shadowed! yacht he sails along uncon- quered in his way. We knew it would be so, Tur Jupce “caught on” with the public on his first appear- ance, By all means give Guiteau a fair, square trial, for then he cannot kick when he re- ceives the just punishment for his crime. Tue electric lights in this city are not all moonshine, but they answer very well for that article, nevertheless, “Let us return to the subject,” said an an- atomical lecturer after the class had taken a recess. A zooLocicaL paradox: It is notorious that giraffes die young, and yet they are long for this world. Necks+t! Mosr of the so-styled art critiques are what a Cockney would call ‘artrending. THE system of book-keeping in vogue in the office of the N. Y., N. H. & H. R.R. must. be somewhat as follows: [ie ee. 31, fay not employ. ing 150 a men at $500. Ito Accitent at Portchester . $18,000] Tammany and Irving Halls seem to ‘be gradually melting together. Mixed with a little New York County Democracy, it wouldn’t be such a very bad stew after all; not half so bad as baked skunk and onions, Wonper if the ice companies will have the long drought of this year for an excuse for raising the price of ice next season? Sue liked his hat, No doubt of that, Adored his cane, It was quite plain, Admired his gloves, Said they were “loves,” And praised his boot, Which seemed to suit; But ‘twas his new ulster Repulsed her. ADVANCE sheets: Those spread on the front. lawn to bleach. A Goop name for a fiddler’s sweetheart : Viol—ah ! Toxsy Trp: Ease up on your croak, youngster. THe JUDGE has come to stay. Doesn't he look staid? A LAWYER'S memorandum-book is full of sue- veneers, Wuat is home without its smother—of loving kisses? He came from Ohio, but demurely apolo- gized for the fact. ‘The sheriff of his county had become a bothersome neighbor, and our friend left in a hurry and the night express. AN “ T-fancy-not,” young man, A ‘“thanks-very-much,” young man, A yellow-y, greener-y, Boston-Baked-Beanery, Anglomaniac young man, “Jack, what shall I call my volume of poems?” “Oh, call it ‘The Ambulance.’ ” “Do you think it would hurt me to pub- lish it?” “Well, if you got out a book of poems, you might live it down in a year or two.”