Judge — 1891 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

THE JACQUEMINOT. S tossed me a rose from the box where she sat A fat, bald man, with a big bass-drum. With the shadowy light on her face, And an Eiffel-red tinge to his nose, Under the brim of her plumed hat And he smiled to himself as he saw it come— Smiling with girlish grace. My beautiful Jacqueminot rose ! I sang to her—and her eyes met mine, She shrark back under the curtains dim As she threw me the flower from her hair, As he fastened it over his breast, With a shy sweet look that was half divine, And out through the footlights I glared at him Like the dew on the Jacqueminot rare, With a scowl of fierce unrest, But her aim was as bad as her eyes were sweet, But 1 calmed the heat of my bosom’s strife And it swayed from her slim white hand, And I went to the box to see ; And instead of fluttering to my feet And I learned that she was the fat man’s wife, It fell on a man in the band. And it hadn't been meant for me ! KATE MASTERSON: A CRISIS IN COLORADO. The sun was just rising over the snow-derbied peaks of the Sangre de Cristo—not so much because it found any profit in at- tending to business in that part of the country, as because of a fixed habit of rising at daybreak. There was nothing unusual in this sunrise; nor yet about the other matutinal ryes which Wide- awake Hank was at the same moment assimilating as an orb-aperi- ent. Not that Hank needed an eye-opener, cither. The Utes, in a moment of mirth and abstraction, had eloped with his eyelids, so that he now slept with both eyes open—whence his soubriquet. It was mere force of habit withHank also—and he was easily forced. Having thus turned their rise in opposite directions, the two full orbs fell to work—the sun to scatter its rays, and Hank to raise his scattered traps. Slinging his steel-trusty rifle across his shoulder and hitching up his buckskin breeches, the bold hunter toiled up the rocky cafion of Wagon creek, rapidly ac- ng pants that were not buckskin, and the only hitch to which was in his lungs, “Cain't chew no rag on this yer luck,” grunted Hank, deftly extracting his third ermine from the second trap, and buttoning its head through a button-hole of his duck coat. And in truth there was no cause for complaint. Despite the circumambient winter, every trap had experienced an early spring, and Hank felt fully justified in removing their furs. On, on up the frozen slope he strode, slightly daunted by the half-dozen bears and numerous smaller game now pendant from the various angles of his anatomy, but buoyed up by a strong will and two liberal legacies. So the day wore -on. The sun was just going down when Mrs, Bonrant—" Mr. Guyerre paid me a charming compliment to-night He said I didn’t look a single day over twenty-five.” Mr. Bonrant—" You don't. You look thousands.”* Hank hastily pried open his last trap—bound not to let the sun get ahead of the old man on the setting business—and started ‘or his little 'dobe-chinked cabin on the Trincheras, running down the steep trail like a village gossip. But alas for the sturdy trapper! He had waited too long, and was now traveling on the time of a special landslide which was running wild on the same track. Suddenly the ground trembled and a terrific roar tilled his ears, after which contract the slide had to forego the pleasure of roaring the rest of its course. Hank was hurled violently to the earth, his hands clutching the rifle above his head. A seventeen-ton bowlder took up a home- stead in his midst and trespassed upon his liver. The sudden attachment of his abdomen for his spine reminded him grimly of the time he was snowed up in the Greenhorns for sixteen days without a morsel. It was a crisis wherein the boldest might despair; but Hank had other matters too pressing to waste time. Brushing the death-dew from his forehead, and discard- ing the rattle in his throat, he reached down into his boot and drew forth a phial of snowy globules. It was his supply of Mugging ® big bile pills. [I fear there is a discrepancy about our hero's reaching down through that thirty-four thousand pounds of porphyry, but you must seek your redress from the proprietors of M.B.B.P.—I merely give the facts as they were stated to met A hasty gulp, and the dying man’s eyes brightened. His liver reasserted itself, and the cowed bowlder slunk away to its Hair, SDT WAV. while Hank hastened home to write an article on his miraculous SE Renna tee escape, for the leading magazines. It has satisfied the captious soemabgaae stent Shee editorial critics, and may be found in all of them—the magazines, ine? tes : —"* Blame it, no! Steam cars.” not the critics—third page from the back cover. cr. Lunas, comicbooks.com