Judge — March 14, 1885 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

THE JUDGE. Goon heavens, FI and whence came thou, This blust'riag wintry night Where are thy mates, thy fe O miserable wi Why, thou hi pws, chums arcely strength to crawl! Long must thy fast have been, Tell me, oh Fly, what desert place ‘Thou hast been hi n. Hast thou not missed the shining pate Erstwhile gambolest o'er? Or sadly longed for the ruby nose ‘Thou didst so oft explore? Or stay, perhaps ‘tis but a ghost Which now salutes my gaze; Forced back by conscience to implore Pardon for wicked ways. I see thou gravely nod’st thy b Thou art not then alive? So flies, like wicked men, have souls That flesh and blood survive? I would forgive thee but for this That hell hath flies to promenade J heads of the bad. In hell thou shalt not torture me— I'll live forever! tem of book-keeping—refusing Tho eagle is a thrifty bird—always found with a dollar, When vessels “list” is it because they are anxious to hear what the wild waves are saying? The only fault that we find with Yseult Dudley is that she can’t shoot straight enough to kill. The fashionable slipper of undressed kid is just as effective in dressing down “kids” as any other kind. The periodical called Nature asserts that the brain is not necessary to life. This, however, may be @ mere lusus natura. “George” sends us this poser: Can an inkstand on roller-skates?’”” We are not much on conundrums, George, but think perhaps it could if it had a pen-holder. It is said that bees and wasps will not sting a person whose skin is smeared with honey. This, of course, may be perfectly true, but the trouble with the Dhastell insects is that they won't always wait until a fellow can smear himself. It is announced that paper is going to take lead pencils. This is sad intelligence. Our office knife has even now a Herculean task in sharpening the lead pencils in use, and if they are going to bring on something tougher yet to cut, we shall be reduced to the neces- sity of using a broad-axe. Tom ADDIS. The Season When; or Fragments of a Winter's Tale. Wuen the intelligent gentleman in the silk hat and elegant overcoat goes forth to breathe the keen but healthy air of the morn- ing. His step is deliberate. His nose is slightly straight. His portly brow instinct with thought. His boots nobly shined. When suddenly, ‘They meet with effusion. And all is over, ‘Till the stars have vanished and the silk hat regain his seat. Then childhood’s buried memories revive, and the next half of a bad quarter of an hour of a well spent life is de- voted to a free lecture on Inck, and our municipal system of government, and the unyielding nature of things. When the industrious farmer, upat4 A. M., goes to the pump to wash his honest face. His horny hand freezes fast to the pump handle. “His manly beard turns to ice. Rushes for towel. Slips on kitchen door-sill and falls into the bosom of his smiling family. Upsets the frugal but wholesome morning meal, Is jumped on and fixed in the calf of his leg by the faithtal dog of the house. F. D. thinks industrious farmer an early burglar. After which industrious farmer rises and swears with that heartfelt d His heels fly heavenward. | The pavement rushes to meet his head. | | ness of purpose to be found only in the un- | corrupted rural bosom. | When hopeful sock-soaked man comes in | out of the icy slush and proceeds to burn his boots on the red hot stove under the impres- | sion that he is warming his fect. When the Democrat of the breakfast table | finds the rural butter unplastic, and the more he tries to spread it over the round of _ bread, the more it rolls up into balls, and | the more he gets mad about it the more it does no good. When the cheerful boys with ruddy cheeks skate on the pond in the meadow, and two of them break throagh. And the big boy ets only a ducking, and the little boy getsa icking into the bargain. When the honored guest is treated to cider, fresh from the cellar, that goes straight to the marrow of his teeth, then inserts himself | between sheets of the purest white. And | dreams peaceful dreams of sliding down the North Pole in anightshirt and blizzard, and wandering barefoot on the ever Greenland shore, When the cold catcher has no difficulty in finding his game. When the cranky husband man who goes in for fresh air and cold bed-rooms, and the practical wife woman can’t sce it. Result, according to T’he Herald-Mercury account: “Mr. Jones was found on the floor of his apartment in an asphyxiated condition—sad occurrence attributed to Mrs. Jones’s habit | of putting fresh coals on the fire and turnin; | the damper shut when retiring for the night.” When the good boy sees the poor hungry sparrow alight on the back stoop, and motions otion and eingle- | Sis to keep still and not scare away the poor A WORTHLESS SUBJECT. Mr. McFapen—“ Faith, Mrs. McFapven I'd not give meself away.” ; M “Och, yet would have to be afther doing that same ter git rid ov yer- the place of cedar in the manufacture of | Sif, for divil a won would ever be the fool ter buy yer.” | comicbooks.com