Judge — October 7, 1882 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

If 1 Only Had the “Corn.” Iv Lonly bad the “corn, Oh, how happy I would be, Lots of fan from night till morn, Never-ending gayaty. Scores of friends both false and true, But, of course, that’s understood, — Howsome’er, twixt me and you Come what may, the * cor It would gain me social height Bay me “puffs” i papers; Set my direst wrongs to rights, And condone my foolish capers; Find a busband for me, too, 2 le born, Or a tony native, wh Might pat wings upon my “corn.” Then, if { should fall quite ill High-priced xet, Who'd present a mammoth bill, To decrease the “corn,” you bet. And if T should die, ab (E’en the rich can’t death escape), Lots of grief (2) there would be when Heirs would sport my **corn etors E could in crape, What a monument t With my name eut deep in stone, How my memory they'd praise, Till the “corn.” was spent and gono, Then, perhapa, they'd let the weeds O'er my Howsome'er tis “corn In this mundane ranch below. 'd raise, * one needs + Sweot contentment is a gem,” That's what well-corn'd folks express; Things go smooth enough with them “Lots to eat, and drink and dress;" But it’s roagh on those who have ot with “silver spoons” been born Being like the last, [crave To be blessed with stintless “corn.” ~apete The New Compositor. BY 3. 1. A sHoRT-SIZED man, shabbily dressed, and with a thick, red nose, entered the office of the Woggleford Calabash, and requested to see the foreman of the composing-room. —Be- ing shown to that gentleman, he desired to know if a good, steady, never-get-drunk type- setter was necded on the Calabash, The foreman replied that he was. “Very good,” said the applicant, taking off his seedy coat and hat, and hanging them carefully on the wall, “I'm your composing- stick.” ‘The foreman glanced dubiously at his hard- looking proboscis, but being in need of an- other compositor, made up his mind to try him, and assigned him to a case, giving him some editorial paragraphs to “ stick up. Me was evidently an old hand at the busi- ness, for he soon proved an adept, and almost as fast as he received his “ copy” would set it up. When thedinner-hour came he did not leave the room, but disinterring a couple of big sandwiches from his coat, made his meal of them. He then left the room, but quickly re- appeared, and rubbing his mouth, resumed work with renewed energy. A few hours after, while the foreman was watching his rapid fingers going, and con- gratulating himself on the acquisition of such THE JUDGE. a prize, he was informed by the office-boy that the editor desired to sec him at once. “*Mr. Reglet,’’ said the editor, who had a copy of that day’s Calabash before him, and adark scowl on his brow, “please send for | | | leman the man that set up the ‘ Editorial Jottings,’ | will you “Certainly, new compositor was summoned. He entered the office with a pleasant smile, and bowing low to editor and foreman, waited to be ques- tioned. “Did you set up ‘Editorial Jottings? manded the editor, glaring fierce! him. “Yes, sir,” returned the new compositor, modestly, “Thad that hono “Oh, you did, sir,” sneered the man of ink; “then tell me, you blamed lunatic, what you mean by this,” and he read from the paperas follows: de- ote ing mun: Democrats do not triumph in the approach. ipal elections we That they nee doubts for a moment. no prophet “There, sir!” roared the editor, who was litle fat man, with the very baldest of heads and ugliest of tempers, ‘ what the devil do you mean by that? I wrote it Re- publicans, you infernal ass, and you knew I did.” “Yes, sir, you did,” was the cool answer, “but you made a mistake in that declaration, and I took the liberty of setting you right. The Democrats, not the Republicans, will carry W eford ; that and——" is my opinion, “Blast you!” almost shricked the indig- nant editor; ‘do you presume to corr manuscript, blank red-n whisky-breathing butcherer of innocent mat- ter? Do you edit this paper or do 1? Get out of here, or I'll murder you!” “But I did it for the sake of the We want to have the Calabash you paper, sir. always right, you know, and my opinion—— T made the editor frantic. “ Curse you and your opinion!” he bellow- ed, his eyes bulging out, and his face looking as though it had been dipped in earmine ink. “ Who the blazes cares for your opinion, you Ulear-eyed cut-throat. Leave the office!” Before the luckless compositor could do so, however, a wild yell arose from the desk where the “funny man” of the Calabash was seated. “Who in the dickens was it that put all this idiotic foolishness in my department?” ex claimed the humorous individual in wrath. “T set that up, sir,” explained the new compositor; “seeing how few the original jokes were, I ventured to add some more of my own composing.” “You did, you meddlesome crank. Here is a sample of your brilliant wit, you con- demned ass : great hed William Goat, Jd him to the back. “Homeward bound,’ strained at the rope that bh 8 he Loop.” “And here is another, equally fresh : ++ Spell idiot with only one letter—U." “Right, you are an idiot, ifever there was one. And there's nearly a column of the | sir,” was the answer, and the | rubbish. Oh, horror! My reputation will be ruined, and all through you, you misers ble slab-sided pirate !" Just at this juncture the long-haired that ran the obituary column, emitted a blood-curdling oath, and growled out : “Td like to get hold of the thick-headed clown that stuck up ‘The Grim Reaper's Har- vest.’ He'd gather in another vietiin mighty quick. “Tt was I,” said the new compositor calinly; “what is wrong 2” “What is wrong?” shricked the death- recorder, getting into a worse rage than the editor or humorist. ‘‘Confound your iron nerve, you cheeky, soulless, tattered bummer, everything is wrong! See how have murdered my exquisite poem on the death of litle Susie Tucker Calabash’s you this city, April 1s! y. and Penelope C. Tucker, a Lone day, Re 1 funeral to-morrow s ++ Oar litt xing with t She will k In that fair and happy land. Sas! vited to al ar, darling’s with the a at blissful Dw no more of +©+Qh 1 little Sao, sour eyes of blue; We ne'er s ‘til we reach where thou art all see a: Free from grief and pain “See what you have added, you callous wretch “ont And sad ber parents mo Bat the darling , she should hay Those verdant plums alone “What do you mean by that, you scoun- drel? The Tucker's will sue the paper. Aud, Holy Saint Michael! here is the death notice of Colonel Green, who died of corpulency, supplemented by some more of your fiendish work!” And the agonized obituaryist read the following verse which was tacked on to Colonel Green’s obituary paragraph : Susie was a lovely lamb, chil left “ «The colonel he was very fat— A fatter man was rare— How ever will they get The steep and f up stair? “Explain your conduct, you miserable idiot, before I murder you!” “Why, you see, sir,” was the cool reply, t little Susie died of cholera, 1 lusion to that would be appro- priate. So with the colonel. We want real- ity in the Calabash and——" “TIL tell you what we want!" cried the obituary man, as he rose from his desk in a hurry, “ we want such gauly, cheeky, ruin- exhaling, meddlesome buns as you to leave this oflice at once! At on He was a big 1 small, and catching him in an iron grip he turned him around, bringing his back into full view. Tle then aimed a terrific kick in the right direction, and that type-setter bounded down the front stairs with the velocity of a fity-pound cannon-ball, striking the sidewalk and rolling out in the gutter, where his hat and coat were thrown by the grinning office-boy. He will never wander in that vi at least, if he is wise, he won't. n, and the compositor was to him ‘inity again; comicbooks.com