Judge — April 16, 1887 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

A SONG FOR SPRING, [From any current magazine.| HE feet of the snow-hid grasses stalk Through low-lying fields afar, Sphere over sphere the planets walk, Each star is a perfect star: But I ask in my mind's wierd, mut- tered talk, Vhat man is?—what women are? Task of the unborn lily bell, Task of the poison bane, Task of the tramp and the heavy swell, Task of the mad and sane, Task of heaven, I ask of hell— And i ask of them all in vain, When the rose unc; To the violet’s mute blue . ‘ Ia songful cheer, T may tell you then, Ltrow, What women are and what man is, dear, But Lecannot tell you now, MADELINE S. BRIDGES, EXPLAINED. LaxpLonD—"" I'm afraid you are not having a very good time. sir. Why don't you goout more? There are some beautiful walks around here, atnd Gvest wn vacation —" Walks? No.thank you. I'ma New York postman ‘A TOUGH 108. “You look played out,” said Merritt. “Did you sit up at poker all night?” “Ne a worse job than that,” replied Terwilliger. “1 tried to convince my wife that she could have her old bonnet made over to look as good as new, CONCLUSIVE. Mr. Snodkins—* But, Ethel, upon my word this is terrible! Your bills area third larger than they were last time.” Mrs, Suodkins —** But, Alphonse, that is impossible, for I be ingle thing Lsaw marked ‘half price’ and ‘giver “save your money,’ and you know you say yourself that money saved is money made. ‘ANEW BRANCH OF ART—HAND-PAINTED HAIR, RY aneTier—"Tean you, sir, the hair will look so natural that you will be compelled to part itevery mon THE MORALS OF MUSIC. Scexe—Druwing room. Lady at piano, singing visibly, Men apart. De Browne—" Upon my word! The gyel is absolutely without don't ve know.” mith—~ How's that? T thought you did not even know De Browne—* No more [dot But ye cawn't say there's anything of the still, small v pout that. cawn you? Van Smith, being from Chicago, does not see it.” A GooD GUESS. “Lhandly know what this poem is worth.” said a tangle-headed poet, “so perhaps I'd better not set any price on it, L guess.” returned the editor, wrestling with the first line, you have hit upon its value exactly. . Patches ant han’some an’ holes a’n't comfble, but hit a'n't a DON'T MEDOLE. hangin’ ‘fense to weal edah. A moral without a tail comicbooks.com