Judge — November 22, 1884 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

THE JUDGE. TRIALS OF A TRADESMAN. ONE O'CLOCK, P. M. HIS THIRD CUSTOMER. “I wish a postage stamp, sir,” THREE O'CLOCK, P. M, HIS FOURTH CUSTOMER. The book agent!! (him v he iron jaw). the habit of bringing dead babies to their houses I’m sure I should never have married you. Come to think of it, perhaps Edward doesn’t do the dissecting himself. I don’t believe he does, for he is a wretched carver, and haggles every piece of meat that comes onthe table. I'll ask him when he gets home, if he ever cut up adead body. If he eays FOUR O'CLOCK, P. M. Joy! he sells a pair of laces for a nickel. FIVE O'CLOCK, P. M. WS FIFTH CUSTOMER. The landlord calls to notif, in his rent!! him of a raise “yes ”"—-well, | don’t believe I'll ever let him kiss me again, and for once in my life I shall agree with Mabel and say doctors are horrid. Mcravns of the tied—recriminations of married people. Nor every New Yorker that goes North goes in search of the North pole. ‘The police is the last thing some of them care to en- “no” I'll forgive him, if he says | counter. SIX O'CLOCK, P. M. road a_ politi has not The road to heaven. SE romantic you | build better than they k achman for husband. are capital whips. things sometimes when they take a Some coachmen sa rule dictionary men don’t have an airy-diction: witness the tremendous ponder- | osity of Sam Johnson's, and the painful stiffness of Noah Webste: ALARMED FRIEND—** What do you mean | by taking p: pssel commanded by such an o as Captain S—? Jones—"* Why everybor she is perfect- ly reckless and 1 don’t want to be wrecked.” Is American politics there is also an Indian Summer. We are enjoying it now. It | began in November and will ast till March. The President actual has such a small slice ence left that the weary campaigners are to jump on him much. The President e is allowed to recover his | breath and stretch his and mend his breeches in a sort of oasis—the only one, or sort of one, to be found in all the howlin, desert that lies between Nomination ani Exauguration, The Presidents unelect have shot into darkness with the suddenness of a tropical sunset, where it is permitted them to repair the drooping head and trick the shorn beam in considerate silence, unrepeated by the morning papers. Beautiful ul rest! In which the batte: trim their war-clubs, grind their toma- , and whet their scalping-knives gainst the not distant day when they must resume the bloody work on which, as some extremely knowing writers assure us, not alone the health, but the very life of popular | institutions like ours depends. comicbooks.com