Judge — August 23, 1890 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE THE BALD-HEADED MAN. QE would think, to read the pa- pers discoursing on the fly, 7 ic ‘The eons for his creston and tie PRODUCE various reasons why, EXCHANGE. ‘That the underlying motive, the real * objective plan, Was to get another whack at ‘The bald-headed man. Now the fly is no respecter of persons or of pates ; He lights wherever fancy or the scent of game dictates ; His object is to suck up all the juices that he can, And he is no Nemesis of ‘The bald-headed man, The fly has been created for a scien- tific use, And there is no use of hunting up a thinly-clad excuse ; He was made to give reporters, ever since the world began, ce to ridicule The bald-headed man. You may talk of sticky paper and lay trains of dynamite, But the fly will live and flourish, as he always has, And the paragraphing punsters from Beersheba to Dan Will keep up their persecution of ‘The bald-headed man. But let them all remember there was once a prophet old 7 / yas ‘To whom the sportive urchins, in wickedness made bold, HIS DICKER, up, thou bald-head !" when out the big bears ran Mr. PINELANDS (from Jersey) —"" L reck'n I've found it at last. This And swallowed up the scoffers of is th produce exchange buildin’, ain't it?” The bald-headed ls MEss! R—'"* Yes,” Me (ENE Mr.- PINELANDS—" Good. Here's four dozen eggs, an’ you can hustle an’ git me a yaller neck-han’kerchief with red spots, a hand of chewin’- terbacker, an’ a small bladder of snuff fer mother.” THE SPIRIT WARNING; OR, WHY DID HE DIE? E SAT alone in his elegantly:furnished room with a bored expression upon his face and his eyes half closed. He was a newspaper man and he was very tired, for the city editor had only that morning told him that his literary attitudinizing was entirely lost upon the proof-readers, and that he had better look sharp, and be pretty decidedly quick about it at that. He leaned his head upon his hand and his breath came in quick, Plymouth-rock pants. He was contemplating a journalistic feat that would paralyze two continents and would cause his copy to be worth six dollars a column, play or pay. Suddenly a breath of salt sea air filled the apartment, and a voice with the ring of a sea- shell spoke through the murky silence: “Tam the spirit of this summer's bathing-suit, and I have come to be interviewed.” The newspaper man raised his head and looked about the room, He saw nothing. Taking a pair of field-glasses from a case which he wore daintily slung across his shoulder, he peered into the dim distance. He then discovered a faint speck athwart the bamboo portiére that artistic- ally concealed, yet half revealed, his shaving-table with its hair-renewer and bay-rum bottles, his combination shoe and THEIR FIRST TRIP TO CONEY. tooth: brushesyand/.20 forth, The faint speck . Backstor (spelling it out)—"* Bathing. was it. “I have come, continued the spirit, “to bespeak a favor for myself and the rest of my sisterhood from the press. It is that we be spared the shafts of the humorous journalist. Through many long and oppressive summers we have been chosen as the peg upon which the funny man hangs his snap- shots of shady satire and hysterical wit. We are desirous that we be al- lowed to remain in what people of your ilk who write against space call the innocuous desuetude of the unknown—in other words we prefer to be like the justly celebrated gentleman who fell out of the balloon—not in it. “But,” asked the newspaper man, while beads of perspiration gemmed the gothii c of his check,“ what are we to do for light reading dur- ing the summer months “What,” asked the spirit in haughty tones, “is the matter with the summer-girl, the ice joke, the country-board humorism, and many others too numerous to mention no flies on the evening extras,” and with a breezy snicker it vanished. , ——— ‘The newspaper man fell over with a dull, nauseating thud and died, JUSTICE SCORES A BULL’ He had been contemplating getting up an illustrated article on 9 7 : a aR ‘s jupce Gurry —‘* What's your name?” “New York belles in their bathing-suits," a s spirit-waming knocked JINR unre“ nrate Reonen rare ‘anner,” him cold. KATE MASTERSON. Jupce Gurry —"* Ten years at hard labor. Never mind what the charge is.” i a emi hy) Backstor—" What's that sign over Vell, it don’t suit me, with my rheumatiz. You an’ the chil'n go in ef yer wanter, an’ I'll turn my back.” comicbooks.com