Judge — 1888 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

CHESTNUTS FROM JULGE. A FORTUNATE ESCAPE. have some notion of what the Hornet is. If, as alleged, a spe- - cial sound indicates a special want, it's plausible to suppose she | simply wants tobe killed. To her father's credit he yearns to be her executioner. But certain trivial objections have been inter- posed, which I doubt not ought to be overruled. Mag is always in trouble, like a base-ball umpire, If, per- chance, she stops blowing on her harmonica, it's a sure sign that she ain't well. We all exclaim, in chorus, “What ain’t the mat- ternow?” Yet Mag has as much brain as if brought up ona fish diet, and the nerve of a female book agent, with a breast as tender as a boarding-house chicken—and besides she’s so very high-toned, especially at night, when even low tones are anything but popular. She’s a whole orchestra,a kind of house-organ (one without stops), or a country dinner-horn when blown by the hired girl. Her mother says she’s a trump, but her father thinks she's more inclined to be a trumpet. For a midnight rima donna, whose regular programmeis a solo two hours long, it is certainly very generous of her to throwin so many encores. Epwarp Durry. Dress makes no dude, the want of it no fellow. Whether the head be sound, or if ‘tis mellow, Is shown by acts, or airs, or affectation— These tell the oats or quality of the ration, Dress a fool youth for theater or Who acts the thought that he must know it all, Bet your sweet life he knows it not at all. HAD HEARD 'EM AT THE TABLE. “Henry,” said a millionaire father, ‘‘you are now about to start out into the world. Which would you rather have me give you—a blessing or a cool hundred thousand?” “One, father, one. I couldn't stand a hundred thousand blessings such as you ask.” Littte Irisuman—‘“ Phat divil called me a liar?” Bic Gerwan—‘‘It vos me, dot's who it vos.” Littte Irisntan—“Och, some little chap ought to be very thankful it wasn’t him.” OUR MAG. Wehaveseveral children at our house, and some of these infants are more or less alive. Among them is a sandy- haired, blue-eyed three-year-old—quick, bright, wiry ‘and tough, a cyclone of | sound wi arms and | attached. She was evidently made when material was a littlescarce, but when the qual- ity thereof was way up. She has the lungs of an auctioneer and the voice of a calliope. She was christened Mag, but is more generally known as “The E Hornet.” When she came she brought her voice with her. It’s in C, ten sharps, though she can sail right up to X, Y,Z without calling on the engineer for more steam. When the neighbors first heard it they naturally sup- paet the doctor to be performing a surgical operation on some- ly in our yard. She sleeps all day, and at night very kindly supplies the music for the walking matches in costume, “Sleeping at night is rather unfashionable in our street now. From sheer force of habit the neighbors go to bed, of course ; but instead of sweetly slumber- ing they pound the pillows all night and vainly wish themselves dead. Mag’s father once thought to gently insert a pillow into each of her lungs. His plan was to stuff'em in early in the evening and take ’em out late the next afternoon — at no partic- ular hour. But there was some trifling objection interposed by the Hornet’s mother. I don’t understand just what it was—any- how he generously yielded. Our landlord, much against his will, one day informed the Hornet's parents that he really feared she would eventually de- populate the neighborhood, “He had been compelled to reduce the rent dawn stairs and some tenants next door had moved out altogether. He was very sorry, but it was a_ serious matter. Yet Mag’s father bravely defended her by saying she was the best child he ever knew—when asleep. In nature, everything that emits sound, I believe, is regulated. It thunders when there is milk to be soured ; the clock strikes so the blind may know when to get out their appetites, and the bass drummer pounds his instrument, not that he is- needlessly cruel, Poticeman—* Hi! what are you up there for?” but. because he’s paid for it. If you can imagine continuous Cotorep Burctar (who has been somewhat retarded in his en- thunder, and a clock that like a ward-heeler never quits striking, | deavors to depart from the scene of his labors)—‘*'Cause I can't and a bass drum run by steam all rolled into one, then you may | come down, boss.” ’ 39 & 4x West 26th Street, New York. $2.50 per Day. MILLER § H TEL, _st Turkish, Electric and Roman Baths, and Massage. Yu for Ciroulars. comicbooks.com