Life — April 10, 1884 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

> LIFE: lady in a splinded dress, with a long thrain and jools like the Quane’s, stipped up to"me and began talkin’ some gibberidge, and Oi said ‘Wee madame,’ and she wint on. And Oi said ‘Wee madame’ again. And she wint on, and wint on, And Oi said ‘ Sweet toot.’ And she burst out laughin’ and says she, ‘O ! it’s Oirish ye are?” And Oi was brought up wid good manners, and Oi says, ‘From Cark, af yer plaze’m, and it’s proud Oi’m av it.’ And I looked round and there was the misthress! And she says, ‘Dear Mrs. Long Azure, Oi’m so glad to see ye! Whin did ye come back from Parry, dear, darlin’ Parry! Oi heerd ye talkin’ to the maid. She’s picked up a few Frinch words from the childthren and loikes to air thim.’ serpint fur ye, Bridget Malony! But it’s moyself that got even wid her, fur Oi says, ‘And who but yerself taught ’m to me yisterday to have me pretind to be a Frinch maid, which Oi ’m no more’n you’re a lady, lyin’ about a poor gurl loike that !" ‘It’s drunk ye are!’ she cried, and if you'll belave me it’s but two glasses of the claret punch Oi’d had below and not so much as a buthered muffin! Whin the lady had gone down, holdin’ her handkerchief up to her mouth, the misthress came back in a juice av a rage wid her eyes sparklin’ loike annything and she says tome ‘Damnye! Ye’re an Oirish idiot! Yell go to-morrow.’ Oi’m goin’ the day. Not for twinty toimes the money would Oi stay wid the loikes av Aer, descindin’ to that langwidge! Where’s thim blessed childthren gone to? They’re swate little darlints and it’s sorry Marggie Dolan is to lave’m.”” (Exeunt French bonnes and children.) A SATIN dress.—The telegraph operatrix’s, There’s a | RENDER. VNTO SCI§SOR$ THOSE THINGS WHICH ARE SCISSORS - A LITTLE fellow with a tall, stalwart wife was asked by a friend if the contrast between them did n’t often expose him to mortifying remarks, “Oh, I don’t mind that,” he said, cheerfully, ‘ but since Sarah 's grown near-sighted, I have to look sharp for fear she ll step on me."—Brooklyn Eagle. “Do TAKE some more of the vegetables, Mr, Blood, for they go to the pigs, anyway.”—Harvard Lampoon. ‘Tru lady going up the Washington monument elevator : ‘‘ Con- ductor, what if the rope breaks that holds us ?” Conductor : ‘Oh, there are a number more attached as safety ropes.” Timid lady: “But if they all break, where shall we go?” Conductor : “Oh, well, m’m, that all depends on what kind of life you have been living be- fore." —Phila, News. DR. OLIVER WENDELL HoLmrs has undeniably written some very good verses in his time, ‘but the best poems I have ever produced,” he says, ‘‘are the trees I planted on the hillside.” If the majority of the current poets would take this hint, and instead of grinding out verses go to planting trees somewhere, the effect could hardly fail to be wholesome, both in an arboreal and literary sense.—S’. Louis Globe- lemocrat. A STRANGER strolling through the cemetary at Fremont, O., ac- costed a grave-digger with the remark : ‘Nice, cosy little plantin’ ground you ’ve got here.” “Yes,” replied the spadesman, without interrupting his work ; “ it is sorter quiet and retired like.” “Can you tell me where Hayes is buried ?” continued the stranger. “What Hayes 2” “ Rutherford B. Hayes.” ae you mean him as was onc’t a President, he ain’t buried at ‘Not buried!” exclaimed the visitor, in astonishment. ‘Great ducks, what do they want to keep him so long for ?”—Brooklyn Eagle. “A Remarkable Novel. 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