Judge — December 22, 1900 — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

CLEO DE MERODE (at the Paris Exposition) SA papillon pure white Poises its wings for flight, | So on one dainty toe You poise, Cléo. Stand like a statue still, And I ask me? where the skill? Flit, and to call I'm fain, *Alight again :” Are all your steps correct ? T cannot recollect— I scarce can see, petite, Your twinkling feet. Oh, exquisite surprise ! What word to characterize | A ballerine in your Disgui-e demure ? A rose-leaf on the storm? Music in maiden's form? A lovelier living saint Than painters paint ? In vain! I'd be unkind, And to no blemish blind— But you, sweet Muse of France, AVENGED a Tih stuB-TAILED ONE—*‘ Ha! ha! You are, I believe, the dog that was making fun of my tail Leave meno chance. he other day!” = . METHOD WITH HIM. EXPECTED TOO MUCH. A TERRIBLE CALAMITY. Crawford—" What induced you to buy A uOy woo seeet in Noose é Cobwigger—* The anarchists talk of killing such a small turkey for Christmas?” Said the id: Itisquect, ff all the great men in the world.” Crabshaw—" So there wouldn't be any left Bat this old chanticleer Freddie—" Say, dad, you don't think they to warm over for the next day.” Won't crow for me now, as he uster,” . will assassinate Santa Claus, do you?” A STUDY FROM LIFE, UCH troubled sonneteer, how oft I've tried The sundry joys of Christmas time to sing. If but the theme were not so old I'd bring An energy unwonted to my side And whoop till ev'ry one were satisfied. No bardlet singing hard or poetling Could rival my own Heliconian spring, For what a bounding Pegasus I'd ride! Yet, though the subject 's old to me and you, And though the Christmas poet, saddened, knows The theme has long since gone the pace that kills, ‘The sobs, the throbs, the shock, the ‘* hock,” are new, And new the aches, the quakes, the woes, the throes, And oh, so new the thrills, the ills, the bills! KATWAN a. LEVY, AT A VENTURE. Edith—" Why is it called Chris'mus, Davie?” Davie (wisely)—“ So's to ‘stinguish it from other musses, I s’pose.” SANTA'S REVENGE, SANTA CLAs—"' Ab, ba! Iere’s the house of that reprobate who makes é those horble pictures of me. Will he get a’bunch of preseats?” And the stockings told the rest. comicbooks.com