Puck — March 1877 — page 3: what you’re looking at

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

The following telegram from Kalamazoo was received at our office: “This morning Jocy Oaks was seen here last evening, playing marbles in the street.” We had just begun to congratulate ourselves upon the discovery of our dearly-loved devil, and draw several sighs of relief on hearing that nothing serious had happened, when an- other telegram came from the same place, which at once blasted all our fond hopes. It ran: “All a mistake, the boy wasn't Joey Oaks; and it wasn’t marbles, but some other game, that he played. In every other respect prev- ious telegram correct.” 3 * * * The mystery remains unsolved. Where, oh! where can our devil be? If interviewing different people in different grades of society can bring him back, we shall leave no stone unturned. It is difficult to know which of the many theories to accept, but we shall not feel at ease until we have heard more details concerning the umbrella and the over- coat. DR. MARY WALKER ON THE “RAMPAGE.” Dr. Mary WALKER appears to have been taking a lesson from Joe’ Coburn, if we may judge by the report of what some unprejudiced people might call her unladylike conduct at the Treasury Department, Washington. A grey-bearded man, who is at the ante-chamber of the Secretary, she told to go to—we’d rather not say where. Winsome Mary Walker then pat her fairy fingers in her pant—we mean her ip-pocket, and threatened to shoot. Sweet, gentle Mary finished her little amusement, and asserted her womanhood by kicking the door- keeper's shins and yelling “murder.” Can't women wear pants without behaving in this naughty manner, worthy only of what is con- ventionally calied the rougher sex? A NEW SPECIES OF SPORT. “See here,” said a wild-eyed man, rushing into our sanctum the other day. ‘See here, Mr. Editor, have you heard that Donati’s comet has broken loose and is coming straight for us at a gait of a million miles a minute?” “Not much, we havn’t,” replied our funny man. “ But if it’s true, we'll have some sport, won't we?" “Sport!” retorted the stranger; “what do you mean by sport?” “Why, I mean @ Uittle wreck-creation, that’s all,” answered the funny man. The intruder thought a moment, and then, tearing his hair with vexation, shot out of the door like hot-shot from a shovel. “W. H. Cornino, of Cleveland, lost a $6,000 colt, who could trot a half-mile in 1.074’ by lockjaw recently.” Well, it would be some- thing rather startling to see this colt trot a half- mile in 1.07% by lockjaw. We've heard of “walking off on your ear,” but ‘trotting by lockjaw”—never.— Pittsburgh Telegraph. “My wire tells the truth three times a day,” remarked a jocose old fellow, at the same time casting a very mischievous glance at her. ‘‘Be- fore rising in the morning she says, ‘Oh, dear, I must get up, but I don’t want to.’ After breakfast she adds, ‘ Well, I suppose I must go to work, but I don’t want to.’ And she goes to bed saying, ‘There, I have been passing all day, and haven't done anything.” —Z-xchange, “WAITING FOR COPY.” HE message came down like a thunder- bolt loud, And the editor’s spirit, once noble and proud, Now yielded, despairing, defeated, and cowed, “We're waiting for copy.” Oh, what shall I say, of what shall I write, Oh, what shall I publish, especially bright? I really don’t want to be kept here all night. ‘They're waiting for copy. My thoughts, as a rule, aren’t heavy or slow, But to-night, how provoking, they simply won't low, And all, too, you see, ’cause I happen to know, ‘They're waiting for copy. I never can write when the printer-fiends worry, My muse is a calm one, and can’t endure flurry. “What! ‘Three columns more? And all in a hurry? You're waiting for copy?” Now, don’t be so hard on the wit of the staff; Take this, it is bright, just read it, you'll laugh. “What, all that won’t make but a col. and a half? You're waiting for copy?” O, spirits that wait on an editor’s brain, Assist me, or else all my struggle’s in vain, ‘That cry so incessant will drive me insane: “We're waiting for copy.” Here, fill up with clippings, a column or two, I cannot compose in this muddle and stew; I'm blest if 1 can! And I’m d—d if I do, While you're waiting for copy. If, reader, th’above should seem wild or absurd, I’ve got one excuse, and it ought to be heard. ‘Twas written in haste, ’cause the printer sent word, “We're waiting for copy.” MYSTERY AND MUSIC, ‘Tue art of musical composition is certainly a wonderful art, and the art of musical criticism is an art which is still more wonderful. To people unacquainted with the mysteries of mus- ical slangography, phrases such as “resolution of a discord,” “contrapuntal progress,” or “intrusion of the dominant,” convey about as much as the inscriptioris in Chinese on rare old Nankin vases. Even when more ordinary language is employed, it is often vastly difficult to ferret ‘out its meaning. Here, for instance, is a sentence lately published on a piece of music by Mozart:— “The lovely, undulating movement of the melody bears witness to the extremely happy mood of the great master.” We really have no notion what constitutes in music an undulating movement; nor does the epithet of “lovely” in any way enlighten us. Movements which are undulating are’ by no means always lovely; for instance, Horace Greeley used to undulate, or roll himself about, but his movements, we are told, were decidedly ungainly. The rolling of a steam- boat is another not uncommon kind of undu- lating movement, and one by no means likely to excite a happy mood in a musician. It Mozart had ever suffered from a movement of this sort, it is probable that the melody sug- gested to his mind would have been a sadly mournful, and by no means extremely happy one. Parkerings. WrrH no little anxiety do we hear that Frenchmen are eating more and more horse- flesh every year, Last year 9,000 horses, Oa asses, and 35 mules were eaten in France. this voraciousness keeps on, in about a dozen years hence, when the aristocratic Gaul wants to go out driving, he won’t know what to hitch his buggy to. Lonc Brancu will soon rival New York as a shipping port. What is the Empire City to do to retain its prestige now that foreign ocean steamers (especially the Russ/and and Ame- rigue) prefer to slide up on the beach and land ngers there, instead of dumping them in good old-fashioned style at a rotten pier on the North River? “Tr is stated as a fact that the Palmer House, Chicago, has over $90,000 worth of bronzes.” Well, there is a good deal of metal about the management of some Western hotels—but it is usually brass, not bronze. Harry Britishers! The American cruller has at last found its way to the tables of the bloated aristocracy. “SecreTARY THOMPSON is the smoker of the present administration.” ‘This is the way the personal column of an exchange puts it. Bat why should Secretary Thompson's weaknesses be thrust upon the public so recklessly. Let him smoke if he chews; there’s nuff said about a man’s public foibles, without going into his domestic ones, for material. Miss Anna Dickinson will play a “Crown of Thorns” at the Eagle next Monday night. If mind always triumphed over matter, there would be no doubt of her success; but strong-minded Anne Boleyns, however novel, are not very refreshing. ‘Tue Russland went ashore with a cargo of blue glass. We have now lost all faith in the mazarine vitrious material. Answers for the Anvious. Poer.—Your lines commencing “To be or not to be, that is the question, whether it is nobler,” etc., etc., are not quite up to our standard. ‘Try again. Expap Merutet.—Of course, Bourbon whiskey is good for corns. Why, it is acorn spirit. Apply it in- ternally. Tyro.—It is the compositor’s fault. If the poetic author writes “ conflict,” and the typo sets it + cod-fish”—who is to bear the blow ? Dr.—Your story, ‘¢ Reconciliation,” contains a deal of subtle sentiment and delicate fancy, but you evidently mistaken the character of the paper. Puck not a religious weekly. Frutz.—What have we ever done to you that should inflict such inspirations upon us? What write may be very deep, and extraordinarily fascinati but before getting at a just verdict we should have to take a week's vacation to decipher your manuscri ‘When Puck opens his puzzle department, we shall your effusion the first show. « X. Y. Z.—Horse-radish belongs to the vegetable, not the animal kingdom, und consequently your remarks on epizootic won't apply. Histo1ax.—The next man who sends us in a on the political situation will be exposed . About nineteen a day are sent in; twenty out of every nineteen are rejected. So you will readily perceive how you are wasting your time. SrupENT.—There is no rhyme for ““whoopi 3” so don’t addle your brains any longer. etary br