Judge — November 30, 1895 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

THE TWO EXTREMES, FLoweky Finns. Wot wuz de nearest yer ever got t' heaven, Weary?” Weary WeacGLes—" W'en a near-sighted philanthropist give me a ten-dollar gold-piece by mistake.” Frowkey Fier *An’ wot wuz de nearest yer ever got t de other place ?” Weary Weaccies—" W'en I wuz arrested fer tryin’ t pass dat gold-piece ; it wuz a poor quality uy brass.” ENTITLED TO IT. St. PeTeR—"* Job, you are one of the old residents of this place, and we always cherish and esteem you, but you will have to give up your medal for Your boils have been cast in the shade. ‘This new-comer gets the “* L give it to him, but who is he?” Sr. Perex —"* On earth he was a resident of Lonelyville, and has ridden A SILICATE, STERN and stony was the bearing of fair Kate in all her ways, Vet a trifle metaphoric under passion’s fusing blaze ; So it chanced a spark magnetic from love's anvil burning fell On the cold, silicious bosom of this. Hinty demoiselle ; And the crusted, noduled geode that she used to call her heart Was soon entered by fléche d'amour (tha, in French, means Cupid’s dart). Then a geologic gouger plied the chisel of his fate, And above his whole collection placed this shining sili-Kate! FROSTY. She —" Where is my picture 2” He —"V have it in my heart” She—" Ab, L see! Cold storage.” ‘The young pastor preaching before his marriage — THANKSGIVING. Ye shall eat in plenty, and be satistied, and praise the name of the Loré cur od, that hath dealt wondrously with you." —Jont. i, 26. WHEN you kin track the chickens by their footprints in the frost, An’ there's broke-ice in the puddle where the ducks has swum acros: : When the dominicker cackles in the straw around the stack, An’ the guiney-hen ‘s a-clackin’ ** Pot-a-racket pot-a-rack "; When there's purple in the wattles of the struttin’ turkey-cock, An’ his wild kyouck an’ gobble is a warnin’ to the flock As they scatter to the orchard-lot an’ twist their necks awry, It's safe for you to calculate Thanksgivin’ 's drawin’ nigh. Oh, it’s then you rise of mornin's with a heart of thankful praise, An’ you look acrost the medders through the frosty, steamy have, With the sun so ful! o° glory as he peeps above the trees *At you plumb forgit about its bein’ cold enough to freeze, Au’ you rub your horny hands together till your knuckles crack, A-thinkin’ of the wheat an’ oats an‘ rye all in the stack, An’ the corn-crib overflowin’ an’ the fodder in the shock, An’ the gobble, gobble, gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock, Oh, happy boy an’ happy man who sees the punkin’ shine, In golden glory ripenin’ on his own punkin-vine ; Who hears the blue-bird warble when the flowers bust the sod, An’ all the year lives right among the closest things to God, Oh, he's the one ‘at knows about the ** wonders of Ilis grace,” For he earns his bread an’ eats it in the sweat of his own face ; An’ when Thanksgivin’ dinner "s done, an’ he has et his part, He can’t tell which is thankfullest—his stummick or his hart, A CHANGE, —and afterward, comicbooks.com