Life — June 28, 1888 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

LIFE A RHYME OF THE TIME. "YY ILL you give me a penny?” My beggar was dressed In the height of the fashion, And all of the best. “* You'll excuse me,” she said, “‘ sir, But home's very far; To walk I’m too tired. I've a seat in “his car, It's late and they'll worry. My children and Will And I’ve only four cents, And a ten-dollar bill.” DOWN AT ERASTINA. RANDPA took little Tommy down to Erastina one day last week to see Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. Of course Grandpa only went because little Tommy could not go alone; but after Grandpa‘arrived on the grounds he seemed to take quite a lively interest in the Proceedings on his own account. “ Are those men sick ?” said little Tommy. “No, Tommy, they’re Indians,” replied Grandpa. «What makes ’em such funny colors, then?” asked Tommy. “That's paint,” answered Grandpa ; “they wear that instead of clothes.” “Do they take it off when they go to bed?” “T don’t know, Tommy. I never slept with an Indian.” “Why not, Grandpa?” “T never had to. But see, Tommy, there comes the “coach,” “ That ain't a coach.” “Why, yes it is, Tommy.” “Where’s the guard with a horn, then? Where's the girls with parasols? And there ain't a dude in sight!” “Yes, Tommy, but this is the Wild West, you know, and shows the way they travel out there. See; there are the passengers getting in now and starting off on their long journey.” “Them ain’t passengers,” said Tommy, decidedly. “What do you mean, Tommy?” asked Grandpa. “One of 'em’s that slim fellow that comes up to see Cousin Clara.” “Sh-h-h-h, Tommy,” interrupted Grandpa; “there come the hostile Indians to attack the coach.” “What do they call ‘em hostile for? way they ride their horses?” “No, Tommy. Hostile Indians are Indians that kill white people.” “And they're going to kill Cousin Clara’s beau? On account of the That'll be fun,” said Tommy, his eyes bulging out with anticipated pleasure. ‘They can’t scalp him, though, can they? What does a hostile Indian do when he goes to scalp a fellow and then finds he’s bald-headed ?” “I suppose he goes back into the woods and kicks him- self, Tommy. Or perhaps he feeds his captive on hair-re- storer until he is in the right condition for scalping.” “Say, Grandpa, stop stuffin’ me,” said Tommy, looking at his ancestor with incredulity. “ What's that man shooting at?” “Clay pigeons.” “What's clay pigeons?” “ Artificial pigeons made to shoot at.” “ Are they good to eat, Grandpa?” “No, Tommy; they’re made of clay, like a brick.” “What's the good of shootin’ at em, then—why don’t he shoot at a brick?” “Because a brick would be too heavy to be thrown from a trap.” “Do clay pigeons lay eggs?” “ Of course not, Tommy.” “Why don’t they?” “T don't know.” “Why don’t you know?” “See here, Tommy; you stop asking questions,” said Grandpa, testily. ‘I want to see this show, and if you dare open your mouth again I'll march you straight home.” And for a little while there was peace. Metcalfe. ALAS! **Poor GoLpson! HIS MIND.” “By Jove! You pon’r say so!” “WHY, MY DEAR BOY, IT IS RLY THREE C’CLOCK, AND I JUST SAW HIM WITH HIS ONE O'CLOCK SUIT ON!” I AM AFRAID THE POOR FELLOW IS LOSING comicbooks.com