Judge — January 17, 1885 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

THE VICTIM By “Jer. THE JUDGE. OF A HOBBY. JosiyN.” AMATEUR MUSICIANS, TAKE NOTICE. sk OZART MENDELSSOHN MaGuacorrty {oro was called “‘MaGlag.” by his comrades, for short) had grown to manhood imbued with the idea that his mission in life was music, He believed that he could play the bag- pi ot! Mozart’s occupation during the day was that of hairdresser in astreet-car stable. In the ordinary United States lingo, he manipu- lated curry-comb and brush over the horses belonging to a soulless corporation which only allowed him ‘Wan dollar an’ twinty- foive cints” per diem for his services. When night came, he would eat his frugal supper and then hie himself to his fifth-story back room, lie down on his bed, and make the welkin ring with airs on his favorite instrument,—musing the while: | “* Arrah! but this is phwat oi call comfort. (Tootle-te-tootle-te-too!) Wan av th’ ould back-numbher poets sez ‘moosic hez char- tums to soothe th’ savage breasht.’ Oi wondher af that curinudgeon av a Smith down sthairs ull consint to me marrhyin’ his | enough? Bedad, en th’ windy an’ daughtter of Oi kape this up lon {long rbiang tot dot eas oat ii i guiss Oi'll git up, o play ’im a few notes, so ho’ll be shure to hear | th’ melodhious poipes.”” Rising and opening the window, he would seat himself way out upon a ledge that had been constructed by a previous occupant of the room for holding flower-pots, and start an imaginary “ Fisher’s Hornpipe” or some- thing akin thereto of a horrible nature, after this order: - “ Rily-ti-tity-t -too; drone-dro-one- dronity-drone; Sc screakety-Scrackely- 8000; wheere-whee-heere-wheerily-wheeze |” Well, “MaGlag” kept this periodical racket up, until life became ‘a weary burden ‘ity: sto ‘th’ Quane’s own tasthe.” The her tenants in his lodging-house thought P\ differently, however, as will ‘on. seen further | and a carking care” to all the inmates of the tenement, and finally they held an indigna- tion meeting, and pat up a job on him. So one night when he was making the hours hideous with a serenade that would have drowned out the noise of asteam boiler factory, old man Smith from the floor below fired a charge of rock-salt from a big blunder- buss up at MaGlaggerty’s dangling legs.— just as Mrs. Fritz Vogel poured a kettle of scalding hot water on his head from the garret above! The effect of the recent dynamite explosions under Scotland Yard, London, weren’t a flea-bite in comparison with the sad havoc | that this double fusillade created with our | Irish Minstrel! His bag-pipes were blown to smithereens, and his frame filled full of saline particles |from below,—while his face, neck, and | hands were burned to blisters from the | deluge overhead! But all this was of but little moment to | his bombarded ‘‘ nibs,” for he also fell | from his lofty perch down five stories to the alley beneath, and when he was picked up from its cobble-stone pavement, the soul of Mozart Mendelssohn MaGlaggerty had passed out of its earthly abiding-place into a better land, where he is now probably satisfying his tunetal instinets by thummingagolden barp in the Heavenly Choir. The lesson meant to be conveyed herein to all those misguided persons who aspire to become musical experts, is, to be very careful in your selection of instruments for night practice, and discriminate against each of the following noted abominations: As you journey through life—whatever you do, Oh! don’t try to blow on the awful bazoo; And touch not the bag-pipes, nor play the hew-gag,— Then you'll ne'er come to grief like Mozart MaGlag, Monographs. MADE OVER FROM PROSE. He took the cider pitcher, ned the dark cellar door; misstep and slipped the length Of the stairs to the cellar floor. He laid there bruised and bleeding When sharp cut a voice through the air: “Now, John, did you go an’ break thet jug In your monkeying with thet stair?” Good Lord! but John was raving! He yelled, as he rose like a flash,— “Your... .. ... pitcher ain't broke yet, But I'll break it, by George!” C-r-rasht A literary swell —an editor with the dropsy. A woman with pretty teeth, or a new secret, can’t keep her mouth shut to save her soul. No, John, in England, when criminals are sentenced to the penal colonies, they are not ‘‘transported with rapture,” but with simple steam power. Strange language ours. Listen to this: A fall on the ice isn’t a nice fall. ‘The } Year custom of swearing off, is wearing off! Frozen kisses are the latest thing out— after dark. They have to be taken in and thawed out by the stove, however, to get the fall flavor of ’em. Some scientist says the temperature of the beo is from three to ten degrees. Now we have, ordinarily, the greatest imaginable respect for science, but in this case we must in sorrow and surprise give it the lie. We comicbooks.com