Judge — November 1, 1890 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE THE SHARK, THE SAILOR AND THE THREE CHAPTERS FROM TWO LIVES. SEA-NYMPH.—(Continued.) 1, THE WESTERNER'S PROPOSAL. ISS Penelope Bunkerhill. Dear madame—The dude of the camp told me this fur; but now I'm a-goin’ to sail in on my own tack, and say—I dunno how the mine ‘ll pan out, fur I ain’t never struck a lead like this afore. But what I'm a-gittin’ at is that I want to git-hitched ; and I ain’t never lit on any girl but you as I thought ‘ud pull as even. If you're onto the racket similar with me, now, let's splice. What say? And be all-fired quick about it too, fur I ain’t used ter many motions. When I do a thing I do it—bang! And if you say the word I'm wid you on the very first streak of lightning that railroads east arterwards. Yourn in dead earnest, Jim Getthere. If, THE BOSTON MAID'S REPLY. Mr. J. Getthere. Dear friend—Upon the perusal of your epistle the various emotions that agitated my somewhat easily agitatible mentality render it extremely difficult for me to command the me- chanical processes of my dexter phalanges sufficiently to indite upon the surface spread before my ocular organs (which, deem me not weak with a maiden-graduate’s weak sentimentalism, are semi-frequently dimmed with a lachrymal fluid) the sentiments which find an abiding-place in my auriculo-ventricular pulsater. I would that I could vocally communicate to your tympanum the adequate syllables which should formulate my reply to your proposal, which my esoteric instinct informs me is prompted by motives which nobility of soul and loftiness of sentiment render indigenous only to natures like your own. While the language of the western portion of our fragment of this planetary universe is at times a little farther from grammatical and orthoepical exactness and rhetorical elegance than I have hitherto been accustomed to having made audi- ble or visible to my senses, I shall consider only the emotions which I prognosticate were abid- ing within your soul- ego, and in my answer I would state that the matter to which you refer—the hymeneal connubiation yclept marriage —is not dis- tasteful to my mental- ity in the abstract, and that as a personality, I may say, en passant, | feel that yours would be as harmoniously al- triustic as I could hope to obtain in this ex- ceedingly egoistic cen- tury. Shall I then re- ceive a telegraphic communication to in- form me at what frag- ment of the hours that are speeding us to- getherwards I may ex- pect your presence— no unforeseen concate- nation of unassimilat- ed circumstances aris- ing to prevent? Yours for altruistic - matrimony, THOSE ELDERLY STAGE-BABIES. Penelope Bunkerhill. ‘THE DUCHESS OF FRANKFURTER—"' Me chee-ild! me chee-ild ! where can I find a hiding-place for you?” HL, MIS REPLY TO HER STRIDENT VOICE FROM THE GALLERY —" Why don’t you send her to REPLY, boarding-school ?* % Well, ‘twas your innings, and I'm knocked out in the first round. I can't catch onto what you mean to save my gizzard, and though what you say ’s white enough as Boston goes, I s’pose, chuck me fur a deader if I can see your raise. Let's call the match off. Say, 'n’ if I's you, I'd call a pill-slinger, and see if he can’t fix up that mentality of your'n so ’s it won't feel so no more. Such talk, it strikes me, shows a screw loose somewhere, and I'd hate to always have to think of you as an out and out loon, like the most on ‘em in Boston. Yourn, hopin’ you'll git shet of it, ARISTINE ANDERSON, J.G. A CORRECTION. Stranger —"{ called, sir, to ask you to correct the statement in your paper yesterday that I had eloped with a society belle of Cincinnati.” Editor —" There is no truth in the story then?” Stranger —"Not a word of truth. The lady was from Chicago.” SHE DESERVED A NEW ONE. LITTLE JENNIE, who had prayed for a new doll for two years, came to the conclusion that her prayers were not heard, so she wrote the following lines and addressed them to heaven: “ deer god, ples gro sum wings on mi ole dol an fliit a wa befor mamma dreses it up a gin for nex krismus. yoors respekfely, “p. m.—plees don’t forgit to sen a nue won. Jennie.” comicbooks.com