Life — February 11, 1904 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

STUDIES OF THE VERNACULAR. Conversation between the ribbon and the girl at the candy counter: “Onnust?”" “*Sright!" ‘Oakum off!" “Sure zima stanninear.” “Jub meanit “Ubetcha.”* ‘Ooseddy did?” Gurlova there.” Wah sheno boutit?”* “D'no. Swatshesedd.” “Oakum off! Yercoddin.”* “Thinkso fu wanta. Bawcher Chrismus gifs?” ‘Notchett. Bawchoors?"* ‘Naw. Saylookeer !"" “Watchasay 2" “Jeer baw Tomman Lil——* “Notsloud! Somebody learus.’ “Lettum. Nothinmuchno how.” “Quitchercoddin.”” “Oakum off! I aintacoddin. racious Imus begittinalong !" “Somus I." ‘Slong !"* ‘Slong !"—Chicago Tribune. counter girl Turs advertisement appeared Aroostook exchange: For Sale.—The R. and P. farms on the line be- tween Woodland and Washburn, where you can dodge the constable of either town. Good air and fine spruce scenery. Good society, two languages spoken and broken. Two houses, so that when one com- mences to tumble, you can move into t'other. Barn big enough to hold the crop if you are careful not to raise too much. Also a “lean to,” or hen preserve ‘The farms will raise anything. Sixty acres of land, improbably more and likely somewhat less. There fsn't a potato bug on the place. There is bigh land where the potato fruit will luxuriate in exuberate fertility; low land for pasture, where the gentle heifer can refresh herself from the limpid depths of recently in an perennial spring of Adam's ale near the front man- ston. And in the opening spring the feathered song- ster of the grove make the air vocal with their melody. Air and songsters go with the place, like- wise the remainder of the grove and the aforesald limpid water. Society, scenery and a gilt-edge chromo thrown in. Store, schoolhouse and starch factory within a reasonable distance. Only the church is lacking. You will have to go to Washburn or come to the model town of Caribou if you want to get religion. Both farms for $700. Only a modicum of cash required, balance in promises long drawn out. OF TOR SWIMMING CLUB JONES WAS A MEMBER. IT WAS QUITE HOT IN JUNE, YOU'LL REMEMBER, SOME BOYS TOOK 118 DUDS, LEYT HIM ONLY TWO sT’DS— IT OPTEN GETS COLD IN DECEMBER! Mr. sit, who had painted a picture of the noble red man in war-patnt and feathers, wanted an unbiased opinion of bis work. His wife said that the picture was the best thing of the kind that she one would know at a glance that It was Intended for an Indian. “To tell the truth,” said Nesbit, looking some- what doubtfully at the picture, “I haven't a great de2! of confidence in either of you. You always preise everything 1 do. Now I'm going down to the strect to see if I can’t find some person who can Le depended upon to give me an absolutely unpreju- diced opinion of this picture—a child, for instance. Children always tell the truth.” Five minutes later Nesbit returned with thr small boys whom he bad found playing marbles in the street “Now, boys,” be sald, “take a good look at this picture. I'll give each of you ten cents if you'll tell me just exactly what you see.” “A rooster!” shouted the three boys, simulta- neously.—Youth's Companion. Ir fs not in this country alone that the notion of equality prevails. The London Figaro reports the following Instance: As a magnificent steamer, the property of the Peninsular & Oriental Company, was steaming into Southampton barbor, a grimy coal-lighter floated immediately in front of it. An officer on board the steamer, seeing this, shouted: “Clear out of the way with that barge!" The Hghterman, a native of the Emerald Isle, shouted in reply, “Are ye the captain of that ves- sel?” “No,” answered the officer “Then spake to yer equal: “I'm the captain o this.” said the lgbter- ran. Grorcr Apr, in the early days of his carcer, before the “Fables in Slang” had brought bim fame, called one morning in Chicago upon a Sunday editor on a mission from a theatrical manager. “I have brought you this manuscript—" he began, but the editor, looking up at the tall, timid youth, interrupted: “Just throw the manuscript in the waste basket, please,” be sald. “I'm very busy just now, and haven't time to do it myself.” Mr. Ade obeyed calmly. He resumed: “I have come from the —— Theatre, and the manuscript I have just thrown in the waste basket is your comic farce of ‘The Erring Son,’ which the manager asks me to return to you with thanks. He suggests that you sell it to an undertaker, to be read at funerals.” dead water; woodland whose sturdy trunks will yield Hght and warmth to the domestic hearth, A had ever seen, His dearest friend, too, was decid- edly enthusiastic. Both declared, in short, that any Then Mr. Ade smiled gently and withdrew.— New York Tribune. 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