Judge — July 26, 1884 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

THE JUDGE. » “ ing | on her’s, and says brokenly: “ Like a roving angel.” At which scowling, from her feet, and mutters blackly, “roving devil,” this being intended for his rival. Olga laughs merrily and kisses them both, while white-winged Peace comes down on things in general. Mossboyne looks up nar, 1, In which more meet and some marry. “Olga, which are you going to take, Mossboyne or ‘ the Baby,”—Olga’s pet name for Mulie. It is Galatea G. speak: Olga shrugs her round shoulders, and says, softly blushing, ‘Gal, dear, maybe you won't believe it, but I always wanted a baby. I shall take Mulie.” As she waits for the words of reproof to come, she spies G. G. wiping her lustrous yes on her child’s pinafore. “You too,” she cries and Galatea answers gently but firmly, “I am going to marry Mon. Kelly. [adore him, and then he looks so like O, Wilde! . . . . * ‘ht in the fool woods! Redmont holds y while she presses her éatin chee coy vigor. They have mutually agreed to nain thus until the moon rises, and just as their mutual muscle is about to give out, pears. Glalys, unwrapping herself, says shyly.‘ You are sure you won't shake nice boy?” As she waits in tremulous silence for his reply, a beautiful light dawns on his blonde beauty, and as his ardent eyes embrace her, he replies with the delicate wording of his only love, al, I just love you right down to the ground, and don’t you forget it.” The girl gives one long sigh of perfect bliss, and as their warm lips meet she breathes out, 1 am satis—fied. THE END. to his with W. D. LUMMIS, Becoming Known. Coutece Prestpest—* Tere is a list of names which I think suitable for honorary degrees this year.” College Director—* My gracious! Looks like a Congressional petition. Why, you must have a couple of thousand of names on | that list.” ** Perhaps, sir; I did not count them.” “Where did you get the names, anyhow?” ‘ound them in the Directory, Solthought. You've taken every Tom, Dick and Harry just as they come’ along. but what under the sun is your ob ” ‘To advertise the institution.” “You think it will do any good?” “Oh, yes; the college will become known —by degrees. —Philadelphia Call. Hard to Get a Start. “Ir requires quite a long time for a man to get a start in the world,” said an old fel- low, ‘‘but some of the most colossal for- tunes have been built on loans advanced by friends, When I married I had to borrow money with which to pay for my license. ‘That was shortly before [came to this town.” “T suppose you are well situated now,” remarked a bystander. et Hardly as well as I might be. Still, if business should be prosperous this year, I think that by close economy I can refund the money which I borrowed to pay for my license.” — Brooklyn Eagle. strained tightly to his evening vest, | 13 Breaking a Balky Horse. «St paid $200 for it. Smith, proudls “Not that AN, I’ve bought Jim Flick’s hors id | It’s a regular dais an awful Mary, told John? — He’ balker. Mrs. Flick’s little girl our Frank that that the r were so late to church last offered that horse to Jerry Brown for his organ, one of Blank’s, with twenty-six stops, and—” “Will you stop the chatter, Mrs, Smith? Don’t ye s'pose I ever traded horses? ‘That horse balk!” and there was a Smith was thinking how Flick had sold him and was trying to call up some plan of vengeance and general destruction of the Flick ri “Balk! balk! S‘pose I didn’t know it? Who can’t break a balkin’ horse? iest thing in the word,” and Smith looked very wise. “I'll hitch him up right away to show you. Like to know what a preacher's daughter knows ’bout a balkin’ horse. Soon Smith and his wife were in the farm wagon. G'lang now!” and the horse went off like an ox team. —** Told you so, Susan. Three hundred dollars of our pappies’ wouldn’t touch him, | Want Brown’s organ with 126 Blanks in it fer a trade, eh? Io, ho!” No, John. Stops, sfops not Blanks. “Who said Blanks? — 1 said one hundred and twenty-six sfops,” he replied, with great precision and emphasis.“ For an organ? Organ factory, you mean. Ifa woman could tell, could possibly tell, the difference be- tween a horso, why-a—g’lang, there, What are yo stoppin’ fer?” The horse had stopried. “Is he hungry, John? Poor thing!” Ve “Hungry? Tungriest horse ever produced in the Western hemisphere. Just | n’ for food. The horse was tapped with the lines, but he continued to stand still. “ Goldang that white-livered Flick. ep, [tell you. I'll maui your etern lights out. Oh, won't yer get ep?” he asked with withering scorn, and he got up by the dashboard and made a terrible lunge with the lines, The horse made a jump forward, and then stopped again, Smith fell out on the double trees. “Are you hurt, dear?” asked his wife. “Hurt?” he echoed, as he climbed in, dis dy’ Get Iesat down beside his wife, panting, but looked ina very piercing way ather. “ Hurt? That's only one of them 126 stops; only 125 more. Hurt, Mrs. Susan J. Smith? Delight- ful! Delightful! Solid enjoyment! Never had anything to feel so good in my born days. ‘Gosh a’mighty, that'll be the dogdest lookin’ carcass on my face to-morrow mornin’ if I live. Buta few more stops like that, my dear, dear Susie, an’—an’, by the holy eternal, you'll be a widow, an’ yer children fatherless. Just you take a turn on them goldarned farmin’ implements out on the wagon tongue. Besides you lookin’ like two twin zebras, yeu'll feel pert and pry; very pert far a minister’s daughter, an’—” “But, John, why don’t you put dirt in his ear?’ Pa used to when he lived in Bos- ton, an’—” “Your pa did, did he?” he exclaimed in bitter irony.‘ Did he pour in Bosting dirt? So your pa was in the horse and real estate business, eh? Fed dirt in the ear, ch! Of course, of course. When I’m confounded idiot ing a nose denuded of a large slice of skin. | enough to shovel dirt a hull forenoon in my horse’s cara, you'll be a widowed daugh- ter of a bean-eating clergyman of Bosting. You hold these lines. — Something's got to die; die, d’ye hear, d-i,” he yelled with aw- ful impressiveness. Ile came back from the roadside with a rail. “ Mrs, Smith, say your prayers. _ Some- thing’s got to come. You perceive this that There's go- The time you also perceive, as a golden dr $200 bay fraud of Mr. Flick’s. ing to be a gory conflict. nd, the bridegroom waiteth. ; dear Susan, there'll be a sound of revelry by night.” t this juncture the rail performed the Ss office of a battering ram. One bump, and the bay kicked the rail over into an adjoining county. Then the bay commenced to b: He ed, and backed, and there seemed to be imminent danger of the harness coming off over his head, “Why, John, des il his scared wife, “what is the matte! Do you suppose you've got the wrongend of the wagon? Oh, dear!” “Mrs, S. there isa point in every one’s disposition, where endurance ceases to be virtue,” he said, in awful calmness.“ I’ve killed things in my time. That horse or me has got to die. If I come out on top, then— Flick. thing but the silence of death will do this time. Amen.” ‘The horse had stopped backing. Smith got out and looked at the horse attentively for a long time. “Mrs. Smith, do you wish to attend the obsequies of this, this measly un’ eternal crawlish of a hor If not, you will take up your bed an’ walk. You’ will go over this evenin’ and br the news to Mrs. Flick. To-night in the gloaming Mr. Flick will pony over #200, or he and his sweet, sweet horse will be requiescating in pieces.” —Tezas Sifiings. Have Patients. “T KNow, my dear,” said the young doc- tor to his wife, “that we are not meh; but after a while our luck will change, and we will have everything we want. You must learn to have patience.” “Don’t preach what you don’t practice. If you'd learn to have patients, we would soon be out of trouble,” and she whisked out of the room, so full of feeling that she slopped over at the eyes.—Merchant Trav- eler. Easy Enough When Explained. “Ts this hot enough for you?” remarked a man to another last Tuesday on the sunny side of the street. “lot? You ain’t complaining about warm weather, I hope?” “Well, it isn’t so darn freezing cold as it might be, is it?” “No, nor isit so boiling hot. Why, ny I’ve got a stove, a g big anthracite base burner, in my room. “Thunder and stand it?” “Oh, easy enough.” “Well, I’d like to know how. “ By not putting any fire in it. You see, we haven’t any other place to store it, 60 we must leave it there all the time.”—Cincin- nati Merchant Traveler. Sahara! How do you comicbooks.com