Judge — May 7, 1887 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

Siape: HIS MAJESTY IN LIVERY. At his top-boots oiled and polished by a bristling blacking-brush A scullion-maid, in passing, looks and turns away to blush ; His jacket’s trim and natty, and he wears a smart cravat And a black-and-orange waistcoat and a cockade in his hat ; And a girth of yellow leather ‘round his top-coate deftl F To show his breadth of shoulders and the smallness of his waist. Just a tuft of scrawny whisker ornaments his freckled cheek, ‘And his stumpy lege are certainly most marvelous!: Men and women hurry by him, rosy girls and mei Prattling infantile descriptions of their newly: But he sits in stiff rigidity and flourishes the whip With a wrinkle of disgust upon his meditative lip. Now he sharply turnsa corner, knocking over pedlers’ stalls, Never heeding the policeman’s or the handsom-drivers’ equails ; Or he gallops down a quiet street, disturbing peaceful minds, And frightencd ladies tassels grasp and rattle up the blinds ; While he ogles pretty nursery-girls and smashes all their hearts, Till they quite forget they're trundling twisted wicker baby-carts. He is lord of all the kitchen, when he deigns in there to dine Where he curses cook's best dishi is master’s taste of wine ; He's a member of the coachman’s club, whose rooms face Bleecker street Where his views on weighty questions are considered quite complete. And they say that Mrs. Muffin’s maid has never raised her head Since this tiger cried, ‘* Henceforward, miss, we both on us is dead.” ‘When he's cleaned the sable harness and has curry-combed the mares, And has let his final footsteps echo from the stable stairs, And he dreams he’s running races, while the people shout his name, His puffy cheeks burn crimson at the thought of jockey fame, He straightens out his withered legs and shuts his honest eyes— I wonder if he tools a drag somewhere in Paradise? A MAY FIEND, “Tm almost dead from house-hunting,” wearily sighed Mrs. Gossip. What do you want with a house?” interrogated Miss Snyder. “T thought you owned your own house.” “Of course I don't want a house,” was the confidential reply, “but I just like to go around and see how people live, you know.” MR. GRAP'S PHILOSOPHY, Jes arter er boy gits outer college he kan't hardly realize that any- body ‘sides him ever did git er diplomer. I never see but one woman as was able to keep er secret. She was deaf an’ dumb an’ hedn't learnt how to write. It's my idee thet ef yer happen to hev er child or er dog thet takes to strangers, ‘taint hardly worth while raisin’ it. I don't take no stock in er young man thet’s allers whistlin’ hymn tunes. Like es not he's figger- in’ out the com- bination of the safe. Times ain't never bin so hard as they be APPRECIATED-THE MUSIC. jest now, an’ He-—"'T hope I haven't wearied you with my conversation, Miss de Snooks.”* thet bas bin tie Sux (impulsicely)—" Not at all. hardly beard a word you said, the last musical selec 4 tion played was so enchanting, you know.’ case jest as fur back es history tion is dead in love with him, I’m a-goin’ to git him fur our meetin’: kin recollec’. house ef I hev to morgage my hull farm. Whaa 2 an Inever heer tell on, let alone see, er woman es hed died o' the ‘lows thet he’s lockjaw or was tongue-tied or had a impediment into her speech got to meet er , _ I've seen lots o' men start out to act like Christians an’ gin it up couple o' friends Jest because the papers didn’t take no notice on it or nominate ‘en fur iner saloon you # Office. , kin’eambls onto Ther never was er lawyer yit es I ever herd on thet refused to it thet them take er fee fur the reason thet his client was poor. They hain’t been friendsis named Uildin’ ‘em thet way ‘ a Tom an’ Jerry. Ther's on’y one man on this here earth as is 0’ more conseq ¥ then the editor of er little daily newspaper, an’ thet man’s the ci Ef lever run editor o' the same paper. Ln. cama, across er young- = ish parson thet THAT SETTLED IT. haint got a idee “You have no children, I suppose 7” said the landlord to the pros- ; my bruise your band #0 ed histace ‘thet the most 0° —_pective tenant. drummer tried me and I slapped his face. i “ a ‘lw eply; : ’s suf- Masel" Slapped a drummer's face ehh yorrtere hacar flow the women in Indeed, no!” was the shrill-voiced reply; “* I'm a woman's suf foolish: Couldn't you find a hammer ¥* the congrega- frage advocate. comicbooks.com