Judge — November 19, 1881 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

6 “The Close of the Summer's Campaign.” WELL, Dick, the Samer Campaign Is over. I bear You were at the shot leading the German, I fear Having too good a time generally. Teil me, Dick, Ofthe “soft nothings” you whispered, tbe bearts you made sick With tove for you, the promises, pledges, what you will, The eugagementa, which you know you'll never fulfil, Of the moon-light, the dak corner, the «weet stern brow Checking your presumpticn, and all that, don’t you know; How you waltzed, then sigh'd and looked upon each other, ‘Then pressed her hand and fervently swore—at her young brother, ‘Who always appeared at the wrong moment. Oh! to te «ure, You would never forget her, ever be constant, nothing allure You away from your devotion to her. You her frst love, Of eourse, for was she not “Just out," innocent as a dove, Just nineteen in Jane, three trunks crammed up to the top With “Jerseys,” and bonnets and dresses, and—bat stop, Who can give the category of a young woman's adornment, More fatricate than the Gordian knot? An assortment ‘Of camples from all the stores on Broadway Is necessary to equip the young lady of to-day, [As she leaves for the country oF for the sea-shore, With the sole object to maneuver an engagement before The Winter sets in. Bat, Dick, 1re are not to be caught Like poor Osh in the net, rather we must be sought For like gold dollar, Ob! yea, / have been thro’ It all; My last I have not ended yet—by the way, | must Poor girl, abe ts in love with me, madly In love; I met her the middie of July, now sbe'll prove, She saya, how constant and true to me she will be, In the city of country, “ever thine most faithful So ran her last letter, seal'd with a signet ring, And scented with violets faint as the Spring: Kate Is her name—pretty? remarkably so, Have not seen her equal since two Summers ago, ‘When I had that affair with Jenny; sou remember How desperate it was? bat ended in November, Like all Sammer fiirtations, so {'ll end this TU be a good friend, a brother, and then I'l kisa Her hand—" fit a fay's wand to wave, white and atry;” TU sort of kneel at her feet—" those of a fatry,"” Aad brotherty gaze in her eyes—" the wistful gazelies " [By Jove, Dick, she {# a belle among telles). Tl ask ber forgiveness, as I did all the others; Ant Dick, “we are sad sea-dogs,"” and how many mothers Would like to annihilate us'—Well, poor thing, She'll get over it, Hello! the postman? Dick, sing Out and tell bim to come in. What, a letter? and for met Well, I know fat hand-writing. Dick, see what anxiety ‘She has for me; this letter is from her; ‘tis mach more Than 1 expected, a letter so soon. Shut the door And let us read it. Bat | know tis the same old Begging me to call, must see me soon, and to awfully ‘That we can't be as much together as in the country. ‘That ber aseection ts the same, and indeed quite contrary To anything she has ever experienced before, and all That sort of thing, don’t yon know, and recalling the ball At which we danced 40 incessantly together, ‘And the last moop-light walk, when we— Oh! the lett “Home, November the Grst ” [she writes exceedingly well 1y dear Mr. B.: Tell me, slr, who can foretell ‘The innumerable changes that occur in one day? Despondency will suddenly smile and array Herself in the garments of Joy, and Joy thus robbed WE: appear clothed in sack-cloth and ashes, and closely botted Ke a not too aad, nad monk. indeed, many a time weeps, and love, that passion most eublime, Shifts and changes Now, my friend, you must alo confess That things are seldom what they seem, and now can’t you rues What Iam driving at? Sammer is over, Winter is here, And we girls often change with the seasons; am I severe (On you to Imagine that you imagined me In love with you? I must say most decidediy ‘That fam not. Now don't make a fuss and exaggerate Matters, bat believe me, simply, sincerely, your /rien Kare” A moch sat-apon young man, ‘A moch taken-n young man, A hypocritical, Hypothetical, Very much-bounced young man, as An umbrella and the average servant girl are somewhat similar, for they never remain iong in one family. Appius CLauptus may have been a tyrant, but he never sold furniture on the installment plan. At the sound of a whistle on the N. Y., H. & H. R.R., the passengers instinctive- | ly grasp the seats and offer up a silent prayer, while the people along the route begin to | clean shirt or stay at home from the opera. THE NEWLY-APPOINTED COUNTRY POST-MASTER. ‘Seooxp Werx 1 Or 8. Tie Week 1y O' ny letters for me to-da AUTUMN THOUGHTS. ‘Tene can be nothing sadder than the sol | emn hush of nature that precedes the death of the year. ‘The golden glory of autumn, with | the billowy bronze and velvet azure of the | skies above the royal robes of oak and maple, bespeak the closing hours of nature's teeming life and the silent farewell to humanity's gauze | underwear. Thus, while nature dons her regal robes of scarlet and gold in honor of the farewell bene- fit to autumn, the sad-eyed poet steals swiftly away to the neighboring clothes line, and in the hour of nature’s grand blow-out dons the | flaming tlannels of his friend out of respect for the hectic flash of the dying year. Leaves have their time to fall, and so has the price of coal. And yet how sadly at vari- ance with decaying nature is the rob market. Another glorious summer with its wealth of pleasant memories is stored away among the archives of our history. Another gloomy | winter is upon us. These wonderful colors that flame across the softened sky of Indian summer like the gory banner of @ royal con- queror come but to warn us that in a few short weeks the water pipe will be busted in the kitchen and the decorated wash bow! will be broken. We flit through the dreamy hours of sum- mer like swift-winged bumble bees amid the honeysuckle and the pumpkin blossoms, stor- ing away perhaps a little glucose honey and buckwheat pancakes for the future, but all at once, like a newspaper thief in the night, the king of frost and ripe, mellow chilblains is upon us, and we crouch beneath the wintry blast and hump our spinal column up into the crisp air like a Texas steer that has thought- lessly swallowed a raw cactus, Life is one continued round of alternate joys and sorrows. To-day we are on the top wave of prosperity, and warming ourselves in the glad sunlight of plenty, and tomorrow we are cast down and depressed financially, and have to stand up the washerwoman for our The October sky already frowns down upon prepare liniment, lint, ete., ete. us, and its frozen tears begin to fall. The No letters for Mrs. Kittle. (after looking the letters over carefully)—Ah, sorry, but there is no letter for you little birds have hushed their little has the fatigued hen. Only the yawning chasm in the cold, ures » Thanksgiving turkey will be filled with voluptuous stuffing and then sewed up. The Hlorid features of the polygamous gobbler will be wrapped in sadness, and cranberry pie will bea burden, for the veal cutlet goeth to its long home, and the ice-cream freezer is broken in the wood-house, Oh, Time! thou bald-pated pelican with the venerable corn-cutter and the ond-hand hour-glass, thou playest strange pranks upon the children of men. No one would think, to look at thy bilious countenance and store teeth, that in thy bony bosom lurked such eccentric schemes. ‘The chubby boy, whose danger signal hangs sadly through the lattice-work of his pants, knows that Time, who waits for no man, will one day, if he struggles heroically on, give him knowledge and suspenders, and fame and a , and experience and a soft white nd eventually a low grave in the valley, beneath the sighing elms and the weep- ing willow, where, in the misty twilight of the year, noiselessly upon his breast shall fall the dead leaf, while the silent tear of the gray autumnal sky will come and sink into the yel- above his head. BILL Nye. low gras: ON A TEAR. THE HARD FATE OP AN STHETE. Fitz, LE was a susceptible young citi- n with a bright footsure before him. Gay), he ambled along one of the toniest of Manhat- tan’s dirt-piled avenues, Suddenly his of foot caromed on an upturned banana hide, and he sat down on the unsympathizing pave- ment to make a careful memorandum of the score. As he did so, he was so unfortunate as to split the difference between the strain on his braces and the back seam of his French simeres. Then, as he held his shattered raiment in both hands and his breath with astonishment, he felt that the future had, somehow or other, gone behind him. Better to have a pickpocket than a pistol slug go through you. comicbooks.com