Life — August 16, 1900 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

Home, Sweet Home. ROM my vacation 1" Sun-browned and tired and glad to rest. Ah! After all, the thing I spurned Is of all things the very best. returned We never know how much we prize The sated joy until we r And then return ny glad eyes How sweet it seems, the dear old home! My golf-sprung bones may now repose Upon a bed that is a bed. And in my oldest suit of clothes Upon real food I'm being fed. How fine the bath of porcelain Looms up to my entrancdd sight ! Here are my bo And once again I may sit up and read at night. Ah, Home, sweet Home, there's naught like thee ! My soul with joy and rapture fills As on my des! more I see ‘That same old stack of unpaid bills! Tom Masson, Zoological Politics. Tue Bronco aND THE JELLY Fisn. ‘HE Imperial Jelly Fish was gasping in a lemonade bowl on top of the Family Bible on the Piazza, when the Boisterous Bronco bucked himself up the steps and kicked three delegations of patriotic parasiies into the green sward of Ohio. ‘Hello, my soft and silky sardine,” whooped the Bronco, with a loud neigh. “Are we in it? Or does the silver serenader of Nebraska bust our slats? Speak up, sweet William.” “Theodore,” murmured the Jelly Fish, plaintively, ‘‘you shock me. Why are you not in Oklahoma or Ari- zona? Do you realize that your obstreperous strenuosity is straining vested interests? You are too loud, too gory, too expansive for timid in- dustry. You convey the impression that the tail is wagging the dog, that you are the main guy, the whole shooting match.” * Willie,” snorted the Bronco, kick- ing a hole in the platform, ‘you are a@ wise guy; but you stick to your weeping, and I'll attend to the whoop- ing ; you ladle gush, I'll sprinkle gore ; you distribute your platitude and ex- pression, and I'll unload patriotism and expansion. I know my place, my gentle gazelle, and I know yours. I'm the wicked partner, and you're the © EIP'E « Y. M. C. A. That's all right, but don't ever let it escape your mutable y that I am the only star in this imperial combination and good for a full house every nigh “ Hush ! Theodore, Jelly Fish whispered. ‘We may be overheard and the contribution box be switched. I know your value, but I do not care to be lost under your hat, I may be mild and yielding, and may be sat upon, bet I will not hire out as adoor mat. The Octopus is annoyed and the Horse Leech alarmed. I pray you be more temperate in speech ; give yourself a rest; go to—Oyster Bay; you are getting on to my nerve “ Willie Walloo,”’ roared the Bronco, “the Octopus and the Horse Leech are peaches, but they have a yellow streak. It's my business to stir up the men- agerie. Prosperity, prayer, platitude, pathos and all the ps and qs are yours; mine is the gusty, gory, galloping, gar- rulous, get-up-and-git réle; you squirm and salve, I scare and scalp; you bleat, I blather ; and we are a corking good team. When I am buck-jumping on the prairie, you are posing on the piazza; you are a sad and solemn saviour of the land, while I ‘sick’ on the dogs of war. We make music, Willie, but you're the pianola and I'm the hurdy-gurdy. You lack humor, my weeping, wavering Willie, but keep your eye on me. The Octopus understands me. I may buck and bound, and bump and bounce and rattle the band wagon; but you will notice that, no matter how high I kick, I never jump out of the harness. Have you observed that little pecul- iarity of your wicked partner, fair Willibus? ”* The Jelly Fish sighed and said, “Perhaps I have misunderstood you, Theodore.’’ And as Boisterous Bronco bounced from the Piazza and bounded into the scarlet sunset cf the wild west, he added, ‘* But we'll put you in the Philippine paddock safe enough, my roystering rough rider, in the sweet bye and bye.” Joseph Smith, tho squirming Champion. NOPD: Well, my baby took the om prize at the baby show. Topp: What was it, a long-distance ~ lung test? Where It Hurt the Most. | RS. MONKTON: You got home later than usual last night, dear. Monkton: Yes. Poker. Mrs. Monkton: Poker! You never told me that you played poker. Monkton : You never asked me. Mrs. Moyktow (aghast): Do you mean to say that every Saturday night you have been out during the past year you have been gambling — gambling with painted cards? Monkton : Certainly. Mrs. MonKTON (intensely agitated): And you told me it was business. Monkton it is business, When a man of my age plays poker every Saturday night, he doesn’t do it for his health. It's business pure and simple. Why, during the last six months I have won five hundred dol- lars. Mrs. Monkton: Oh! You unnatural man! How you have deceived me! How could you? How wicked! How sinful! To treat me so! Monkton: Nonsense! Playing cards isn’t a bit worse than half the things you women do. . Mrs. MONKTON (tearfully): Maybe it isn't, but if I had won five hundred dollars during the last six months, I would at least have given you half of it. JUDGE: What are your grounds for © seeking a divorce? PrarntirF: Well, my husband has developed a scheme for the regeneration of the race and for making life worth living, and he is practicing on me. “Granted.” © prevents tHe ane PROM COMING OUT."