Judge, 1889-12 · page 12 of 53
Judge — December 1889 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains four separate satirical pieces: 1. **"Game for the Dog"**: A butcher warns a French visitor (identified by accent as "Frenchy") not to move, as the butcher's dog might mistake his mustache for rats—mocking both the Frenchman's distinctive facial hair and implying French people are rodent-like. 2. **"Handy to Have in the Family"**: A wealthy father approves his son pursuing law specifically because the son can help collect debts from tradesmen—satirizing both paternal cynicism and the upper class's use of legal connections for financial gain. 3. **"No Place Like Home"**: An old settler romanticizes returning home after travels, speaking in exaggerated rural dialect about the irreplaceability of home. The satire mocks nostalgic patriotism and sentimental rural ideology. 4. **"He Couldn't Join In"**: A man refuses to sing "Auld Lang Syne" because another guest owes him money from gambling—cynically suggesting financial grievance trumps holiday goodwill and camaraderie.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
CHRISTMAS bs GAME FOR THE DOG. WASHINGTON MARKET BUTCHER (to Mons. Sicard, who dislikes deg:)— “Better not move, Frenchy. D’ purp t'inks dat mustash is rats.” HANDY TO HAVE IN THE FAMILY. BrensHaw, jr.—‘‘I think I'd prefer law to either the church or the army, governor BrENsHAW, sx.—‘‘ That'll suit me exactly, Cedric. You'll be able to help me out a great deal. All your tradesmen down at Cambridge are suing me for your last season's bills.” NO PLACE LIKE HOME. (According to the old settler’s idea.) HRIS'MAS hez come, b'gosh! wunst more, an’ I'm hum ag’in, squire, fom a furrin shore,” said the old settler, looking happy. “Ben fur on yer travels, major?” asked the squire. “Fur?” exclaimed the old settler. “$h'd think so! Ben more'n forty miled, b’gosh! Ben vis'tin’ some o° M’riar's folks th’t we hadn't see in twenty-seven year, M’riar she wanted to stay over Chris’mas, but I says no. Th’ hain’t no place like hum, I says, ‘specially at Chris'mas, an’ we mus’ go hum, an’ we did. Th’ hain’t no place on top o' the foot-stool, squire, ez kin stan’ up an’ hold even the butt-cend of a taller candle to yer own vine an’ fig-tree.Y' kin gad the kentry over, f'om the gittin’ up o’ the sun to the settin’ down o° the same, but whar'll ye find the spot th't y" kin knuckle up to an’ slap on the back an’ say to it, ‘You're my honeysuckle!’ like y’ kin to the spot look back to f'om ever so fur away an’ see ev'ry spear o’ grass th’t’s growin’ in it, an’ ev'ry gravel-stun th't’s layin’ on it, an’ ev'ry face th’t’s smilin’ in it, jist ez plain ez if they was all a standin’ right afore y'? B’gosh, squire, y’ wun’t find it nowhar ! HE COULDN'T JOIN IN. Tue nost (as the party breaks up)—'* Now then, all join in: ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot, an’’"” — Mx. PHILWIMPLe (who has been sulking all the evening)—'« Not when Sam Hackett over thar owes me seven dollars fer borrered chips.” comicbooks.com