Judge — January 10, 1885 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

A MOVING Man op tHe Hovsr—‘ Stop! If you THE JUDGE, ARGUMENT. move you are a dead man, Comicat Burcuar—“ Ha! ha! Long as Imove I am a live man, ’cordin’ to my philosophy.” “The twilight dues are falling,” writes a | et. Poor fellow, his creditors must be | Importunate to make him sing so ungram- matically. I will meet you in this wheat by-and yy,” said one reaper to another as they adjourned to the house for dinner. There are two hundred women in Sarina, | Ont., who are entitled to vote. Those | women must be very assiduously courted just ‘about election time. Heaven be praised! There are some Eng- lish customs our young men don’t take kindly to. Just after Christmas week we heard Gruelly tell his girl that for the life of him he couldn’t see how anything pleas- urable could be associated with the missile- toe. A poem has just been published, entitled, “The Silent Barber Dead.” Ho! what rot is this? A silent barber has never yet been born, so how could one die? Now, if the pee had called his piece ‘‘The Dead Bar- r Silent,” people might, perhaps, have been induced to believe such a thing possible. ALMOST A MURDER. Splipps read in the paper that cholera seems to select women for victims in .prefer- ence to men, and being out in company last | night, he thought he would paralyze the crowd with a pun. “What disease seizes women in preference to men?” he propounded. The company grew sad-eyed all at once, and gave it up without an effort. «Why, the cholera,” said Splipps, smil- ing blandly. Then, as no one laughed, but all looked at him in mute entreaty, he added disgustedly: ‘Can't you see the point? The coller-her! eh?” One by one strong men burst into tears, and all the company felt as if they had come to a funeral instead of a feast, except a phrenolo ist present, who offered to examine plipps’ head free of charge. Bat Splipps had departed. Sisterly Sympathy and Brotherly Love. “Oh! come hither my dear brother Peter, Confide in your own sister Sue; What's the reason you sit by the fire And look so uncommonly bluet Has the girl you adored all the summer Proved fickle, when once she was fond? There are others as young and as lovely, Cheer up man! and never despond. Has the last new pomatum you purchased Not suited your hair’s auburn hue, Or your golden moustaches got faded, Or your whiskers got severed from yout Have the now walking pants you were proud of, Been made just a shadow too tight, Or your rose-colored Merveilleux necktie Been made just a shadow too bright? Can't you pass off your Rhinestone and pebbles For gems, like you did once before? Will the corsets that fitted so neatly Encircle your figure no more? Or is it the supper of oysters You ate after leaving the play? Or is it tomatoes and salad Have taken your spirits away? Or have sou a hard-hearted tailor Who pursues you wherever you go, With a claim for the balance and interest Of account as its tendered below? Oh, Peter! pluck up, dear, and tell me; I must know the best or the worst.” Sue paused, but her Peter was savage, And, I'm sorry to say that be curst But he never confided his trouble, Or the reason he sulked, and he swore; And so, my dear friends, I'm unable At present, to tell any more. Peter was not good-tempered or kindly, No! not even commonly civil, Or he'd never have told sister Susan He wished ber to go to the d-v-1 wes It is said that ‘‘ poets are born, not made,” but we have scen a poet maid. Wild Western Journalism, Ir you want gold, bright yellow gold, the genuine bona-fide, Simon-pure article to come pouring into your clothes, if you want glory, blood, the small-pox, or any other many of a like uatare—if you want any or all of these things, I say, there isa boundless field for an enterprising (I might add enter- prize-ring) man in Bigbug, Bigbug District, Arizona. Two years ago I was a full-fledged four- dollar-parchment-diploma-with--a--twenty- dollar-frame graduate, with a guaranteed ability for anything from district messenger to government contract dealer. grew conceited. Talent like mine wasn’t going to be thrown away on an ungrate- ful public unless the necessary glory and shekels were forthcoming—not if this gradu- ate knew himself, and he thought he did. Walking down Broadway ona balmy after- noon (that is to say, I was walking on the sidewalk, but the weather was balmy chanced into a railroad office and picked up a descriptive guide to the Golden Southwest. It told of the wide field that was open for genius and labor, of the hidden wealth and the rolling prairie. I read of the men, who, but a few months before were counting R. R. ties on the Southern Pacific, who started in business with a capital of two army brogans, one sock, one pair of pants, one red shirt, one suspender, one hat, a button hook and an ‘“‘Arkansaw tooth pick,” and nothing else —these men were now sending their wives and daughters to Paris to be painted by big artists. They were building mansions in the Queen Anne style, where their “dug- outs” had once stood, oh! I was green, so een I wouldn't burn. I went to Bigbug, in Bigbug District, twenty miles from Pres- cott, Arizona. I “‘prospected,” so to speak, and found there wasn’t a paper of any kind ublished within a radius of twenty miles ‘rom Bigbug. I tackled the boys, filled them chock-up with ‘‘tangle foot,” and in a quiet but firm voice, without a tremor of emotion in it, asked them how they would back a “young feller” about my size and ago if he started a newspaper thereabouts. They yelled, they roared, they swore by all they ever drank (and gentle reader that was a big swear) that that was the missing link. They would pay fifty cents “ for ev'ry durned noospaper thet wuz turned out;” they would ‘lick etarnal stuffin’ outen ev'ry snoozer wut sed ho couldn’t read.” They would pay two dollars aline for advertisements, just to give the young feller a “‘ hist inter the saddle of for- tune.” Did I bite? Did I send East for all the material wherewith to print the Big- bug Weekly Nightingale? Well, I should smile—that is, {shouldn't smile, not yet. I ran off four hundred copies the first Saturday, and that ight when the gang had come in from work, [ went to the ‘‘T'rap” (that was the name of the gin-mill where they congregated) with one hundred copies of the “ Bigbug Weekly Nightingale” under my arm, and sold out at twenty-five cents a copy. The circulation from that time kept on increasing, but the population of the “Turkey District” (on the south) didn’t seem to patronize me much, so in an un- guarded moment I sat down on the editoral soap-box and wrote the following, letting it go in the next day’s issue: “We regret to see that our neighbors in the Turkey District do not support us in a more liberal manner. They evidently believethat ‘ ignorance is bliss’ for the whole number of subscribers in that comicbooks.com