Judge — April 19, 1884 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

in his humble home at Shed-on-the-Mill Creek. Screechlouder, sr., smiles with agony when he tells how Tom crawled in one cold, chilly a. m., wet and hungry, with an empty milk can on his shoulder, and how he immediately made a light in the hall and killed the fatted canary. Let us return to the back fence, It is still there. So is the bashful sunshine, ex- cept when it playfally hides for a brief mo- ment behind one of the Airy-Fairy-Lillian- like clouds that saunter along in the pano- ramic procession of a Sunday-school mega cope—and she is there! remarks Thomas Screechlouder, jr., to himself, as he peeps through a crack in the alley gate. Witha bound he is on top of the ash barrel. ‘Then, pausing a moment to the potato parings and odd pieces of table-ware dropped in by the servant while her thoughts were with the policeman in the area door—he pauses and sits down to think. Thomas Screechlouder, jr., is not much addicted to thinking, and the effort proves too much for him: he gets a cinder in hi propping up the upper lid with’a table-fork picked from the ash-barrel, and blowing his nose very hard in a red-bordered napkin, he dislodges the foreigner and gives up the project of thinking. But he looks long and earnes! ” * . the moon. For it is night now, and if her sable gar- ments don’t trail a little they ought to. We are on the back fence. “So is Thomas Screechlouder, jr., and she, the idol he has enshrined in his heart of hearts, sits at the other end lazily stroking her whiskers. She has not been lazily stroking her whiskers ever since the opening lines of this chapter. No—for when the sinking sun was sinking behind yon brewery that rises ghostly in the mellow moonlight, she slid softly down a post and dreamily wended her way to the kitchen. Thoughts of Tommy and a roof-tree in some sunny clime were fondly intermingled with musk-melon and cream, But she had to hicken And Tommy would come in the large-round-yellow- ‘ ever and anon glanci at her graceful figure reflected in « convenient window-pane, wondering impatiently what time Thomas Screechlouder, jr., would come and say again the many kind things he had 8o often before said to tee Thomas, giving his nose a decided wipe on the red-bordered napkin, slowly approaches with a manner full of affection largely adul- terated with caution, He always approaches that way: for sometimes, when he least ex- pects it, she turns on him with a look like Et tu Brute?—probably when the cook has put too much milk in the water, or the melon rinds are too ripe. But on this occa- sion he has naught to fear. Coming up be- hind her softly, he playfully places his paws over her eyes. “Tt is you, Tommy!” “Yes, it is I, Sweetheart!” And taking away his paws he stands before her. They look fondly into each other's eyes. Her own droop bashfully beneath his ardent gaze, and she smiles gently as she says: “ How weary long the time has been;” and archly ques- tions: ‘I am afraid you loitered at the pie shop?” He looks at her in reproachful silence a moment, then vehemently answers: “No! my darling; the pie is not made that can ever come between us!” A shadow comes into her fair face, and into her tender eyes full of unshed tears, a far-away look, till they rest on the smokestack of the brewery. And thea on Tommy. She looks, hesitating to say that which she knows must be said, content herself with young spring: livers on skivers. eye. But by | THE JUDGE. THE BIGGEST MAN IN THE RING. AND HE HAS BEEN FOR EIGHT YEARS HONOR: and trembles, with a great fear in her heart that she may lose what she now wholly real- izes for the first time mast be till the end of her life its chiefest part—her love for Thomas Screechlouder, jr. He has taken one of her little velvety paws in both his own and is tenderly caressing it as he whis- ers: ‘I know weall have our little troubles; ut what can my darling’s be that she look- eth forth so cloudily? The curled moon is like a little feather fluttering far down the gulf.” It is not known how much more poetry ‘Thomas Screechlouder, jr., would have quoted had not a bootjack just then floated from an up-stairs window. It floated so near Thomas Screechlouder, jr.’s, head that Thomas felt its breath fan his fevered brow. Thomas is young in years but old in boot- jacks. His serenity i quietly adjourn to the woodhouse, where, comfortably seated on a pile of kindlings, he tenderly resumes his question: “ What ails my darling?” and he suddenly demands, | at next fiercely, ‘* Hus that scoundrelly door!”—— “No, it’s not that,” she faintly replies. “What then?” he questions. Choking down a rising sob with a felinesic effort, in quivering, pleading tones she begs assurance of his forgiveness. He promises, is unruMiled, and they | YET HE DON’T SEEM TO CARRY OFF THE OMEHOW She takes and. sneezes through her and presses her paw reassuring! afresh hold on the kindlir pathetically as she tries to smi tears. “Well, darling, any time,” he remarks, i le blue shade of impatience in his we have all night before us, you Then with a mighty, almost des- pairing effort, she huskily whisp “Tommy! I forgot. No sound breaks the stillness save a voice at the up-stairs window crooning plaintively 8. Thomas Screechlouder, jr., has abandoned himself to the poetic fancies that thrill bis soul. Recalling himself with an effort, he absently inquires: “Forgot what, my darling?” “T forgot "— “* Well, what in thunder have you forgot- | ten?” “To pluck the rosy-cheeked canary ” she moment ‘Thomas Screechlouder, jr., comes to the ‘ue and ftakes her sobbing is breast, saying, in soothing ton ver mind, darling. We will lunch off the damask-cheeked fish-ball! BURTONICUS. comicbooks.com