Judge — September 22, 1883 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

Alliterative Acrostic. DEDICATED TO OKO, FRANCIA TRAIN, BY RED KAIN. Grant genius! sadly stranded on F do rocks of im Estranged, as erewhile Crusoe, on {deal isle of old; Omnipotent in £y0—here omni means nibility— Reluctantly ‘tis written, thy mind is fossiled mold, Great in thy own opinion—no woful wight is greater; Enraptured with nonentity—queer “quantity un- known,” From Eld erst evoluted by the hand of thy Creator; Recluse ‘mid mocking multitudes, mendaciously a- lone. Anchored to thy penny peanuts and thy own or. dained opinion: No dog dare bark, no cat can mew while thou dost solemn spe Concentrated in thy subtle self, not one ‘mong Mam mon’s minions In ardent admiration cowers, or cheek Solemn as old storied sages, hoods fallacie Through all the apish 1 defore— nce still rem palaces Are frail as fabled fabrics formed by Ge Insatiate iconoclast! sad slave of dire delusiot New notions wayward flitting athwart thy fancy wild; “cottons” to thy far famed for fal«- s of the world, waned Remembi ing—thy myriad-peopled * Mokanna, of much prophecy and proud pretense | the fusion, of self thou art, and still by self beguiled. i . a Sphynx. In bonds of rigid reticence—thy loose logistic lore So safely thou sccretest, till some pa her finds thee . ‘On that balmy bench still sitting, like Poe’s raven, evermore: (Now here we drop the curtain from N to sively,) inclu. s Q U A R E °- Presuming that ‘Quill quizzical has done his part obtrusively.) How George the Silent bites at bait thu before him In gaudy guise, ma and read; Let here suftice—this sylvan sage, who'd stout and sternly swore him On peanuts still in silence philosophical to feed, Soon opes his mouth mysterious, and in phrase epi- grammatic, On that bench reclining pensive, pours his pent-up, medley out; Patient stands the paragrapher, while the “silent” sage pragmatic His maudlin mediocrity in the world’s face would flout Enough! egad, enon; the Erratii Retire behind thy bulwarks, and in solemn silence shout! ittering well be guessed by all who ran Tue proprietors of the Farm, FYeld and Fireside, Chicago, are meeting with great success in securing subscribers to their pub- lication. In addition to furnishing an excel- lent paper at the low price of fifty cents for six months, they propose to distribute fort thousand dollars in presents to their subscri- bers. See their announcement in advertis- ing columns. MARRIED BLIS Hesnanp (fondly)—A re yon as happy as yon were before we were married? Wier (tenderly)—Much happier, for 1 know so many more yeutlemen now. Borrowmore Blower's Letter to The Judge. Ratner lato hours for a benedict, Ill ad- mit, but I don’t see why a man should ! expected to give up every amusement just because he’s gone and got married. Mrs. Blower millly insinuates that ‘a husband’s enjoyment ‘should be beneath his own roof. If I preferred ‘stax’ parties, where revelry was kept up to all hours, why did T marry? Had I told Mrs. Blower that I marr her for the little annuity she settled on mo, there would have been more remonstrance and more tears [ sought in every way, mising myself as the he reconcile her to my little di without compre | she remained immovable as a roc 1! good friend, Geo. Francis | Therefore, when Jamborino g his inimitable evenings at home . prepared to go, and affected not to hear the sighs or see the tea The third night in one week that I have been left alone,” she murmured, I pretended not to hear her, for I was un- yielding in my determination to go, though my conscience told me I was spreading it on, to say the least, rather thic T am natur- ally kind-hearted and forgiving. I would show her that I didn’t take offence at her remarks regarding my neglect. While thus ruminating on my v Jamborino’s, I passed a milliner: show-window was full of those little calami- ties that women always want. Chief of them was a pink bonnet—a mite of an af- fair. I rushed in, for they were putting up the shutters, and purchased it. Pink Mrs. Blower’s favorite color. I would send it as a “ peace-offering” to her at once. But the shopkeeper informed me that the errand-boy had gone home; he would send it off the first thing in the morning. ‘That wouldn’t answer. I would take it to | wrapped it nicely | minua the incumbrances. ” $ | ting it in the regulation band-box. my beloved, myself. I demurred at his put- Thada lof my coat, where y without damage feathers or flowers, so he n tissue paper and placed it therein, and [ went on my way to borin soothed in mind as to the result. It was late when I entered. A shout greeted my arrival. “Thad broken away from the ‘apron strings!” “Three cheers anda tiger for the hero!” ‘The fun grew fast and furious. ‘Thrice I started for home, by mine host from making capacions pocket in the t it_might he stowed aw cither to. the my adieu. “If I left thus carly,” he said follow suit.” At last I got As I was ascending my own steps the neighboring clock chimed three. _[ fumbled in my pockets for my latch key, but it was forthcoming. Alas! I was compelled to ring—once—twice—thrice—then [| heard a light step. Idrew the pink hat from my pocket. In sundry falls from Janborino’s to my own door, | had flattened it like a pancake; but I had no time to remedy it. Mrs. Blower stood in the epen doorway con- fronting me. I handed the bonnet to her and stammered : ‘Take it, my dear; it’s a love of a dove of a duck of a bonnet—e real, live bonnet—” If you could have seen. the look she gave me, Junox, you wouldn't be Blower; no, not for my little annuity, Speak of **cal- Mine that 1 would amities” that befall a man, pink bonnet. Will you believe me, sir, Mra. Blower— ’ attempted to restore it to its pristine beauty, or put it on her head—has hung it in the flattened shape she received it from me on one of the stag horns that adorn the buffet in our dining room. On the tissue paper is written: ‘* A trophy of Blower’s last stag party.” Last indeed ? We shall sce what we shall see, O Jupag! wet | comicbooks.com Hs