Judge — December 1888 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

L E | j | CHRISTMAS JUDGE 19 think ?” and with an indignant toss of the head she left me. For once I did not laugh at Bridget. There seemed a certain pathetic heroism in such self-abnegation on the part of the poor little ill-fed lass. Surely to this small serving maid, waif and drudge that she was, there had filtered through a touch of the genuine Christmas spirit, a ray of the real glory of the season! Fifteen minutes later my door was suddenly opened a few inches and a small, freckled hand thrust in a large goblet filled to the brim with some dark colored liqui Smell and taste demonstrated it to be whisky, cheap grocer’s stuff but undeniably whisky. A peace offering from Bridget, to whose willing soul my chance remark had been suggestion enough. Evidently too the child thought if a little was good more was better, for she had brought me enough to floor a Sioux Indian. With some misgivings I added a small portion to my lemonade, mentally hoping its medicinal qualities were not eliminated by its manifest adulteration, and went to bed. S¢TTIME slides along, Squire, like a saw-log down a_roll-way,” remarked the old settler. “It don't stop fer nuthin’ an’ it don’t turn out fur nuthin’; an’ the longer ye see it runnin’ the faster, b’gosh, it seems to go. But the seasons plays tag with one another now jist the same ez they did w'en we was young, though they do seem fo scoot along a lectle livelier. It ‘pears now-a-days cz if Spring hain’t no sooner kim a skippin’ along an’, gentle ez she is, swatted ol" Winter ‘long-side the jaw fer his impydence in tryin’ to lay his head in her lap an’ keep it thar, an’ made him glad to take hisself off a hustlin’, ‘fore Summer comes a prancin’ up, sassy an’ proud ez a school gal in a red jersey, an’ sets right in to make it so warm fer leetle Miss Spring that she can’t stan’ it, an’ away she goes, leavin’ all her nice, fresh, sweet-smellin’ duds fer Summer to p’rade roun’ in, an’ to cut over an’ make up new. Then ye hardly git use to the high- steppin’ an’ gushin’ Summer's smilin’ an’ prancin’ an‘ runnin’ things ez if she was the perpetyul boss o' the hull year, w'en chipper Ortum’ hears o° her goin’s on, an’ comes a callin’ on her. ‘Stid o' findin’ her a queen o” beauty, Ortum’ finds her unly a fadin’ an’ over-grown slattern, but a tryin’ hard to make out th’t she’s the same bright gal th't pranced along so proud an’ sassy a lectle w'ile afore, an’ cheeked the bashful Spring outen her own. But Summer can't pick the new- comer up fer no fool, b’gosh, an’ Ortum’, bein’ red-headed, has got a temper o” her own, an’ the fust thing we know, her an’ Summer goes to clawin’ one another's hair. Summer gits the wust of it, an’ has to pull up an’ make tracks, ragged an’ bare-legged, an’ all used up. Ortum’ jist more'n brightens up things fer a spell, fer she’s red an’ lusty, an’ dresses gay an’ lives fast. Ye hain’t hardly got to admirin’ of her an’ her ways, though, ‘fore ol’ Winter comes a stealin’ back ag’in, an’ goes to coaxin’ roun’ this snappy red beauty. Strong an’ grow’d-up ez she is—big enough and old enough to know better— she hain’t got the kerridge even o' the young and tender spring, an’ she don’t hustle the hoary ol’ sinner off with a flea in his ear, like the leetle un did, but listens to him an’ tarries, an’ bimeby gives herself upto him. Then, the fust thing ye know, her charms is gone, an’ he The next day my cold was decidedly better. The combined and cumulative effect of camphor, ammonia, lemon and Bridget’s fire- water had done the work. The weather, too, had been equally suc- cessful, and had evolved from its doubtful ingredients of the night before a crisp, sparkling morning—a typical Christmas day. When I came back to the house about noon, after a brisk walk in the bracing air, various odors floating through the halls apprised me that Mrs. Featherstone’s dinner was in process of preparation, and naturally reminded me of Bridget. As I wished to bestow one or two little Christmas trinkets I had secured for the child, and also thank and reimburse her or somebody for the liberal ration of grog. T rang the bell. In lieu of Bridget, however, the languid Thomas appeared, ex- plaining when I asked for her that “ Bridget’s done gone, sah.” “Gone ?" I repeated somewhat vaguely. “Yes, sah. The missus sent her off this mawnin’, sah. You see Bridget done drunk all the likker that was for the puddin’ sauce. Cook saw her with the bottle las’ night and this mawnin’ ebery drop were drunk up. So missus she done send her off in a hurry.” This was illuminating. Poor little Bridget’s devotion and mistaken loyalty had cost her dear. It must have been a sore trial to go, as she did, with the flavor of the dinner rising like incense to her nostrils and the boiling of the coveted pudding singing like music in her ears. And what crooked, cross-eyed conscience was hers that prevented her from appropriating a single raisin from the Christmas pudding, but allowed the wholesale abstraction of the sauce ? Perhaps, though, with the Jesuits, the child reasoncd that the end justified the means. Of course a brief explanation to Mrs. Feath- erstone of my unwitting share in the purloining of her spirits at once restored matters and Bridget to their quondam footing. And I have every reason to believe that on that particular Christmas Bridget enjoyed for the first time in her checkered career, the novel sensation of having even more than cnough to eat. Satiety and she had met at last. MARGARRT MASILTON WELCH throws her off, an’ ye hear her go moanin’ an’ moanin’ away, shiverin’ in her nakedness, an’ lookin’ like a ghost. An’ so it goes, Squire! The four seasons chases one another ‘roun’, year in an’ year out, all the world over, an’ we foller the trail ‘long with ‘em, drawin’ all the time nigher an’ nigher, b’gosh, to the last campin’ groun’.” “On gin’ral principles, Major,” said the Squire, “ yer ‘bout right. Yer doctern ‘bout the four seasons is good the world over, pervidin’ ye leave out Jersey. Thuz unly two seasons in Jersey, Major—one w’en they take their liquor hot, an’ t'other w'en they put ice in it.” xp. Morr, THE EDITOR'S CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE. THE Waste-BASkET—"' My dear friend, during the joy and festivities of this gladsome season you must not forget the unvarying fidelity of an old henchman. I simply want an equal partnership in the business.” comicbooks.com