Judge — 1891 — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE'S Bast Murrey—"* Say, fatty, move over a little, will yer? You're crowdin me, I never see sech a hog.” SARATOGA, I met her on the train from Sara- toga. Unfortunately for me, the seat next hers was the only one vacant. Reluctantly I asked her whether the vacant seat had been reserved. “No.” I sat down, took out my paper and began to read. The train was now moving through a beautiful country, which had just emerged from its winter bath, and, in all the freshness of spring,seemed to say, “How do you like me?” Lost in contemplation, now of my paper and now of the beautiful vernality (patented), I was sudden- ly seized by a desire to observe my neighbor more closely, and, as 1 was drinking in the various good and bad features of her personality, she suddenly turned and com- menced as follows: “ Well, young man, do you think that you'll for- t to remember me? Do you? ‘on’t this classical head be for- MamMa—** What occupation do you think will be best for ANNUAL. A VAGUE IDEA OF DISTANCES. AUNT SARAM (as the steamer leaves the pier)—"* Now, "Manthy, you keep holt of the end, an’ I'll unwind; an’ when you git acrost, give two jerks, So's I'll know you've arriv’.” taken!” she shrieked; “ Mistaken! Hear the monster! Can't I see the size of your satchel and your cheek? Can’t—”. Here I interrupted, in a voice that knew no quailing, wit! “Madam, you are entirely mi: taken, I regret that I do not be- long to the Ancient Order of Com- mercial Evangelists, but that is an oversight of mine. The cheek has been acquired in my line of busi- ness’ by constant association with all sorts of people; and the satchel I carry because I got it for nothing. Know, madam, that I am the Su- preme Boss of the Order of United Laborers, Past Grand Treasurer of the Order of Funny Fellows, Most High Priest of the Worthy Order of Dudes, G. A.C, C. A. D., F.O. O.L, A.S. S. L.A, M. B., etc.” I looked at her. She was ashy pale. The enormity of her offense had overcome her. She fell back in her seat and murmured, ever woven into the gray matter of our dearest boy when he grows up?” “Whiskey! rock-and-rye! whiskey!” your cerebellum? I know what Parpa—''T think with a little more home training he will Iturned, looked again; imagine my you’ are; you are one of thosenasty —_—smake a good sword-swallower.” bold-faced, impudent cheats, a drummer. | I know you; I can tell it by the size of your satchel. Don’t tell me I labor under a species of mental aberration, or I call the conductor to put you off.” Here she stopped for want of breath, and I embraced the opportunity to pacify her thusly: “Madam,” said I, “you are mistaken——" “ Mis- surprise. when I found she was a Salvation Armyist. This is a true story. Very many people may feel inclined to doubt it. However, if the word of the best poet of the world and a few other cities is worth anything—and we should ker- smile if it were not—you can believe that old proverb, “ Truth is mighty, but will lie sometimes.” exit comicbooks.com