Life — June 18, 1885 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

Polly, to brother who has lost his balloon: NEVER MIND, JAKEY, WHEN YOU GO TO HEAVEN YOU'LL FIND IT WAITING. GOD WILL CHECK IT AND KEEP IT FOR YOU. P. S.—Polly has lived in hotels. “No, loike stonin’ goats, more,” said Mrs. Nolan, and then she resumed her narrative. “Lasht avenin’, the lamp wuz lit on the table, Tummy wuz playin’ by the winder, an’ me husband wuz takin’ his convanience in his arrum-chair, wid his back to the dure. / wuz sittin’ near the table a-readin’ the mornin’ Hurru/d, an’ Tummy all av a suddent lit the winder-shade run up near the top. ‘ Mudder,’ sez he, ‘the b'yes have made a big bon-foire in the lot opposite,’ sez he. An’ from where I sat I could see the reflixion av a blazin’ tar-barrel in the loockin’-glass over the mantel-pace. Jist thin the dure opined behind me, and Mary Ann come in. She saw the reflixion, too, an’ yelled ‘ Fotre /" loike bloody-murder. I turns round to look at her, and she wuz trimblin’ wid ox- coitemint, an’ as google-eyed as acrab! ‘ Forre/’ yells she, an’ wid that she grabs a bottle of greenade an’ lets it fly. Smash! goes the bottle an’doon come our twinty-dollar in- graving av St. Patrick drivin’ the shnakes out of Ireland. Crash / goes another and over comes the clock. ‘Hullup !’ shouts Tirry, an’ got out of his chair, but whang, wan of the greeners hits him in the hid an’ busts all over him. Wid that he fell spacheless on the flure, an’ I thought he wuz kilt en- toirely. Tummy crawled under the sofa, an’ I scrouched doon behind the table. All this toime that cross-eyed Mary Ann wuz screeching ‘ Forre / forre / an’ plooggin’ them bot- tles av greenade round the room. Bang/ wan hits the vase full av wax fruit that Tirry got at the fair. Sv/am / another puts out the loight an’ clears the lamp off the table, and she foired the rist af the dozen bottles, roight an’ lift, whang / smash / ‘round in the dark. The glass wuz crashin’ an’ the gteenade stoof was splatterin’, an’ splashin’, an’ tricklin’ all over the wall an’ furnitoor.” “Mother 0’ Moses!” interrupted Mr. Coogan. “It’s bushels of glass. there is iverywhere. How did it ind, Mrs. Nolan?” “ The b'yes over in the lot heard the scraychin’ an’ crashin’, “and they smothered their foire an’ come an’ bust in the front- dure, ter see the foight they thought it wuz, Terry is in bid; wid a poultice on his hid, an’ Mary Ann is a-sittin’ in the kitchen, paceable as a lamb, lookin’ at the ind av her nose fer occypation. She can pack up an’ lave this viry day. As fer that young sphalpeen av a Tummy, he ought ter be licked fer littin’ up the winder-shade. Take my advoice, Mr. Coogan, an’ trust in the foiremin or an ould-fashioned pail av water, an’ don't be afther buyin’ flasks av cologny-perfume to put out foires wid.” “Ye're roight, Mrs. Nolan,” replied Mr. Coogan. “ That 's sinsible information, an’ I ‘ll niver be google-eyed, nayther.” Carlsbad. ROSE LEAVES. ITHIN this fragile urn by chance I found them, void of scent and faded, Reminders of a secret romance That budded, bloomed and died as they did. The years have flown in swallow flight Since last we met and I incensed her ; Her eyes have lost their laughing light, And Time has long conspired against her. Here let them lie—the once admired— A food for idle contemplation, Dead as the passion they inspired, The ashes of an old flirtation. Clinton Scollard. FABLES FOR THE TIMES. THE FARMER AND THE GOOSE. POOR Farmer once owned an enormous Goose, that laid a golden egg every month; but as the Farmer was very anxious to pay off a mortgage on his property, he killed the phenomenal Goose and got more gold from her body than could be obtained from a couple of gold mines, In fact a complete transformation was wrought in the Farm- er's affairs and prospects; his near-sighted acquaintances suddenly found that they could recognize him in a dense fog ; the wart on his nose, which had previously been regarded as a hideous excrescence, was ascertained, on a closer inspec- tion, to be a unique, picturesque, and xsthetic equipment ; and the neighborhood wag, who had often said that, when the Farmer talked, it was “like running the English language through a sausage-grinder,” now affirmed that his speech was “remarkably free from the hampering conventionalities of the day.” The Farmer was soon master of a princely establishment, and built him a dog-house of solid gold. MORAL: It is wasting time to catch fish with a hook when you can rake them in by the bushel with a seine; and it is useless ‘to walk up nine flights of stairs when you can take the elevator. comicbooks.com