Life — November 8, 1883 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

WAITER, BRING ME WE DON’T GIVE E! A No, TWELVE WOULD N RAW str, OYSTERS. WE GIVE SIX, OR TWELVE, EVER DO, WE SHOULD BE THIRTEEN AT TABLE ! A “Sucar” cureD Ham.—A colored Democrat. A Hot Sun.—The boy who has to wear the revised edition of his father’s trousers. Tue better the day, the better the dude. “THe Nicnt Sipe oF New Yorx.”—Homicide and suicide. A BALD-HEADED man parts his hair on the what-is-left side. Cuarves F, Lummis. “WHERE are you going, Foggs ?” asked a man on the sidewalk. “ Black-burying,” Said Foggs, as he joined the darkey funeral. THE dye. Tue Pawnsroker's.—Never too late to lend. Barper’s.—Never say OUR CARTOON. OWN the road I went, Mr. Lire, my tin can flying.—The dogs at my heels, the galloping ladies and gentlemen after them, yelling, cracking whips, and making noise enough to have frightened to death a much bigger person than a wee bit of a fox like me. They all seemed to be having such Fun, I was tired and thirsty, the road was dusty, and I could n’t keep it up any longer. My pace slackened, I felt the hot breath of the sixty big dogs, and heard their jaws snap—snap—SNAP !!! In vain I looked for a friend to help me—some- where to hide—but I see now it would have spoiled the fun. And as the jaws of those sixty dogs closed over my poor little body (and the tin-can), and my eyes gazed for the last time on the brilliant spectacle of splendid equipages, gaily dressed ladies, and gallant horsemen, I heard a little boy, about three years old, say “ O mama, what Fun.” . Now, Mr. Lire, will you please tell my successor, so that he can tell me, just where the Fu# comes in? Respectfully yours, Tue Fox. P. S.—I enclose you a rough sketch I have made, showing the close of my earthly career. For the heeler—While there ’s life, there's “‘ soap.” MaAyY a devout person, who would ‘consider a hint at the possible earthly origin of any part of the Bible as sacrilege, will be found to pour over the pages of “Beyond the Gates” by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, and accept its earth-born fancies as almost a second revelation. At the risk of offending some such soul, who has perhaps picked up Lire for relaxation from the profundities of “Baxter's Saints’ Rest” or “Butler’s Analogy,” we feel compelled to give the honest judgment, that, nothwithstanding the undeniable power of the rhetoric and beauty of the phantasy, the book is absurd in parts and often ridiculous. The picture of the beautiful homes on the boulevards of the Celestial City, where happy families on earth live to- gether in Eternal bliss, certainly appeals to the heart of the average mortal. But if the average Reason of an average mortal considers the matter for a moment, it is. puzzled to understand just where the family reunions begin and end. If it is a necessary part of the happiness of the heroine’s father to have his child- ren gathered under his own roof, it is not to be inferred that his own father would have a like desire for a family comicbooks.com