Judge — October 7, 1882 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

Tre Sen STEN YS = SSeS SF Va ; ERIE a =r freer er is acter a Porvtar Poems ILLcstratr Dot Leedle Books. At every station on the Russian railroads is a grievance book, in which the traveler may inscribe his wrongs in any language he likes, and which is periodically read by the authorities, An American who alw: has the welfare of THe Jupce at heart, slipped one of these interesting books into his pocket to preserve for our especial benefit. In Russia this act. would be called theft, but we will dignify it to the honor of newspaper ente prise. The following are abstracts from the abstracted book : ++ Can't get a drink this side of St. P . + Decwwer.” “The insulting station-agent informed me that my trunks would have to go by a special freight-train the bagzage-car was not a freight-train, “Oreratic Stan.” “The condactor refused to tak and I had to pay. my last year's pass, Discustep D. 1.” “Can't find a newsboy, and think your blasted old railroad ought to have a lot of hoya, ala America, to drop packages of stale gum-drops and prize packn in passengers’ laps. Why don’t you wake up? OLD Traveten.” “The disgusting, brutal conductor compelted me to remove my pants and appear like the benighted and down-trodden women of Russia. Dr. Many Watxen. “Vot you make dose sanvitches mit, eh? I breaks me mine new false teeth set ven I bites mit dem. By shumping Jimmiay, somebody pay mit dose teeth ! «Raiser WILteLy.” “My pet canary escaped from his cage while I was feeling him, and your surly old conductor wouldn't stop for me to get oat and catch my birdie. - “Otp Marp.” You should instract your brakemen to be more careful when they call the names of stations. A brake- man with half a pound of plug tobacco in his mouth, who is in a great harry and sticks his head inside the car-door to yell, ‘Nex’ station's Klatakisbicakos- Katiclapskimoski—whotleliski, is almost sure to get ex- citable passengers, and particularly ladies traveling alone, all mixed up. H. Warp Beecuen.” “Your conductors need a bath. Turn the hose on vem. Sayrrary.” “Haven't seen a good-looking fellow I could flirt with since I've been in your mean, old country. “Sweet Stirrers.” “Wasn't al when the train convey and the C | over a dynamite cartridge placed on the track to blow up the Czar. Axrricay Newsrarer MAY.” *Ze laily in ze seal sacque call me ze puppy French- man, ven T smile Ze con- ductor punch ze head ish look on ze ladies. 1 then ze ticket. Frescumas.” The Poet's Heart. A poet says: “You hold my heart in your terrible hands—in your cold, your cruel, care- less hands.” We never read of a sadder case. To have one's warm heart held in cold hands must be decidedly uncomfortable, and cause it to shiver as if it was wrestling with an attack of the ague; but when the hands are also crucl and careless, the solicitude of the owner of the heart for its safety must be very great. If the careless hands were to let the } muscular organ drop, the consequences might | be very sad indeed, and the poet would be justified in suing fordamages. He should not trust his heart in such reckless hands, If it were to sustain irreparable damages, he might titute an egg-plant or something that way, but he could never write an ode to his girl and say ‘‘my heart beats for thee,” be- cause an egg-plant wouldn't beat worth a cent, although tho poet might ‘‘beat” enough for both. Wuat's Levy's favorite vegetable 7” tobe sure. The man is a prot catist. See! Corn, ssional corn- THERE are people who say that they can- not make head or tail of Laura Don's new play, “The Daughter of the Nile.” Laura ought to furnish her patrons a key, whereby they might study it out like a eryptogram or cunciform inscription. And if she did, would it be a Don-key? Hoop’s song of the shirt is good, but he ought to have tacked on an annex, and worked in the song of the lost shirt-button. THE END OF THE SEASON. Hox come the darlings from Long Branch and New- port, Home from the mountain, the river, the foam; Glad as the tempest-tossed sailor to view port, Worn vat with travel, they're glad to come home. Glad to leave boarding-bouse messes bebind them, Pleased with the prospect of plenty of rest, Glad to be going where letters will find them, Joyed to be back in their snug little mest. ‘Ob, but they're weary of watering-places, Whirl of the omnibus, rail way and boat, Wearied with keeping old Sol from their facea, Cloyed with the clatter of gay table Chiite. Weary of flirting ‘gainst parents’ stern vetoes, Conscious themselves that stop,” Sick of verandas a Homesick for Broa “this thing’s got to 1 mad with mosquitoes, way and yearning to shop. Home come the baignenses, divinely delicious Rosy-checked, laughing: lipped, plump little pets, Fresh from the sea and their gambols capricious, In their bright tunics and gay pantalettes; Home from the freedom of fancifal dresses, Home from the rocks and the sea and thesand, Beanty no longer unloosens her tresses— White little feet are not seen on the strand. Home come the brave little, stout mountain climbers, Sated with scrambles o'er rivers and rocks; Names that would pazzle the craftiest rhymers Doffed mountain dresses and red Knickerbocks Brown are their hands and right ruddy their faces, Hear them discourse of the mountains they've d« Watch the delight of these muscalar grac Voting the Catskills “* most capital fan." Maybe a heart haw been lost in the scramble, A love washed away or washed io hy the sea, A husband been found in a summer day's ramble, A life romance closed in the shade of a tree. ‘The parson will end it, and who will remember That summer first wove the knot he is to tie— We realize only that this is September And summer lies gaspi Roll on, old ocean, thy duty is ended, Float a few vessels and end a few lives; Not for a year will thy ripples be blended With the gay laughs of our maidens and wives. Cold blows the breeze round the sweet isle of Coney Beating ita headlands with billows of snow . Sun-softened hearts in the chill air grow sto The season is over, ‘tis better to go. OLD Summerbreeze calls up his children every Sunday morning, and catechises them in the Scriptures. Last Sunday he was put- ting his youngest through at a 2.10 gait, when he asked him to name the different Peters mentioned in Holy Writ. Epaphro- ditus stopped a moment, and said: ‘Don't bilieve I know ‘em all, dad, but here goes: Saint Peter, Peter the Hermit, Peter tho Fisherman, Peter the Great, Peter the Pump- kin-eater, Salt Peter, and——" “Hold on!” yelled the old gentleman, ‘that will do; hustle on yer duds and scoot for Sunday- school.” A straw bond fraud was sent to State prison last week. He has progressed from the bond to the bondage. Ir sugar is made from old rags, why are not the ragmen’s songs sweeter? JuLia Warp Howe says women do not fall in love any more. No, Julia, they call it a “mash " nowadays. comicbooks.com