Puck — May 1877 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

4 MOODS OF LOVE. H,, little lady, well you know How sweetly ? (Altho! Discreetly) Your fascinating eyes upon me glow. I fear I have not strength to bear Such glances. Despair Entrances) And Tam wild—that is—why do you stare ? I wonder if you think, my dear, I'm joking. ‘(Come here, Provoking!) T long to whisper something in your ear. You won't—you wo \guish— Of any Cold, cruel flirt, ‘The hour has come to you and me For parting— (You see, I'm starting.) Good-bye, sweetheart—thus love must ever be. so ‘ hate your laughing yet My heart is broken, and I'm quite Disgusted— (You might Have trusted!) But men are fools, and women—am I right ? Farewell, farewell, I go at last— Though slowly: (The past Is holy)— i dase ne leave th oniod ance spot too fast. What—did you speak 2—ah, tender plant!— Deuce take her! (I can’t Forsake her,) And by the ghost of my great sire, I shan’t, ‘There, sweet, you know I'd pine away Without you, ‘Nay, nay— doubt you!) 1 sooner doubt the sunlit smile of day, G. E. M. SAYINGS AND DOINGS. ‘AR, of course, is the uppermost topic. ‘The Bear and the Turkey, the Cres- cent and the Cross, the Cossack and the Bashi-Bazouk, the Greek churchman and the Mohametan—any one of these names will do—are at their old game again. One is obliged to think and write about it, so long as they are engaged in the delightfully fascinating amusement of cutting one another's throats. Besides, pork is going up, corn is going up, leather is going up, lard is going up, and so are several insurance companies. But the Carnival has not “gone up.” What if it is to take place nearly three months after the proper time? The butchers ought gloomily to celebrate it anyhow. Carne-vale means “meat, farewell,” and that’s what they're saying all the time, consequent on the heavy shipments to England. The Telegram takes these coming ities under its protecting wing, and its bul- i ‘board is enriched by a remar! ‘able colored poster, with a great deal of small print and a wonderful coat-of-arms; but a colored poster goes no more towards making a Carnival than a single swallow is conventionally supposed to be indispensable to the manufacture of one of the seasons. Why not change the name, and call it the “Oyster-vale,” as in this month we say good-bye to the acephalous mollusk? Or, better still, postpone the Carnival to the 4th of July or Christmas-day? Nothing like killing two birds with one stone. There is another war which sorely tries the liquor-men’s soul. What is to be done, if no more lager or whiskey can be legally swallowed in a bar-room? Oliver Cotter is the champion of the total abstainers, and his followers are strong on cold water. By the way, last week a man drank himself to death for five cents, in a “bucket-shop.” The place was called the “Honest Man’s.” ‘The coroner's jury “ver- dicted” “kicked the bucket;” at least they ought to have done so. ‘The betting men are in despair, and refuse to be comforted; “pools” will be things of the past, if Gov. Robinson assents to the Pool-bill. No more will the stentorian lungs of the auction- eer be heard, “A hundred-and-fifty I'm offered, who'll say sixty?” The clicking of the Paris mutual machine, always puzzling to the unini- tiated, will become almost as obsolete as the flint and steel. New York city and State are to be made so virtuous by these Albany legislators, that they will set an example to the world, and enter into formidable competition with heaven itself. Mrs. Hayes’s name is Lucy; so a veracious exchange informs us. The temperance men sing: “We love you, dearest Lucy, ‘Tho’ we have not known you long; We glory in dear Lucy, Who objects to drink that’s strong.” Mark Twain and Bret Harte’s play of “Ah Sin” is about to be produced in Washington. 1 hope that all will go smoothly ; and that no one will be base enough to commit arson, Kate Claxton must not be in the cast. “Baba” has come to grief in Baltimore; no audiences, no money, no salaries, no nothing. This sort of thing is not new. Perhaps more has been said about Czsar’s wife being “above suspicion” during the last few days than ever before. Augustus Czsar, “the noblest Roman of them all,” charges Philip Krieger $100,000 for alienating the affec- tions of his “‘help-meet.” Mr. Krieger said “he didn’t.” Czsar shows his wounded heart, cry- ing, ‘‘See what a rent the envious Krieger made!” Cresar’s wife used to serve lager in her husband’s saloon, and then served him out by absenting herself from bed, board and beer, and seeking under Krieger's roof, as house- keeper, that repose that a beer-saloon can never afford. If Cosar values Mrs. C. at a hundred thousand dollars now, it is startling to think of the value he must have put on her before she left him; for, practically, he offers to sell out at what may be considered a reduced figure. Cxx- sar’s wife, when a maiden, must, therefore, have been quoted and worth in August's eyes at least a million dollars. Pan, “AN APPRENTICE WANTED.” ew By M. QUAD. 7 was almost a first-class millinery store. It was so close to it that the old maid who managed the place had the curls, the winning’ smile and the dignity of a first-class milliner, and she also hated men. About ten o'clock in the forenoon, a man on the last half-mile of life halted before the door, read the sign and number several times, com- pared them with an advertisement in a morning paper, and no longer hesitated to enter. He was portly, and a rim of red and gray hair ran around his head just above his ears to hide the baldness at the crown. “This is your advertisement?” he queried, as he laid the paper on the show-case: The old maid said it was. “Can I see you alone,” he softly asked, as he looked around the store. She led the way to the back room where dresses were fitted, and after taking a seat he put his hat on the floor between Kis feet, and continued: “So you have no one to love, eh?” “What!” she exclaimed. “Want some dear boy to pinch your rosy cheek and call you his peck-o'-peaches, do you?” he asked. “Sir! who are you?” she almost howled. * «PG. White, my dear,” he smiled. “Why. this astonishment, dear girl? Wasn't you ex- pecting an answer to your advertisement?” “My advertisement?” “Yes, dear. You advertised for an appren- tice—apprentice witha big A. I saw through it in a minute, put on my Sunday suit, hunted you up, and here Iam. I like your looks very much. Am I as good-looking an old boy as you conjured up in your hours of reverie?” “Sir!” she screamed. “Don't be so formal,” he coaxingly replied. © “T've got my faults, of course, but I’ve got wealth here in my wallet, and more in the bank. Please call me Pete, and I'll call you Dolly.” “You great villain! what are you saying?” she howled, as she sprang up. “Don't, Dolly, don't!” The protested, as he waved her down. ‘I expected a reasonable amount of coyness, and am glad to see it, but don’t be nervous, my luscious harvest-apple. If we can come to an understanding, I'll buy Shakespeare and we'll read Hamlet together, for I think you have a taste for the drama as well as myself,” “You are drunk—you are crazy—get out o’ here!” “Now, Dolly, is that the right way, to adver- tise for an apprentice and then call the appli- cant names and order him out?” “You—you app! ly?" she gasped. “Certainly, my dear tulip-blossom. I saw the little joker in your advertisement in a second. You didn’t want to come out and advertise for a husband, and so you used the word apprentice, Pretty good, Dolly. I admire sharpness in a woman, How do you like me, anyhow?” “You old rascal—you villain—I’ll call the police! I don’t want a husband--I won't have one—I'll have you arrested!” “Dolly, don't you want a husband?” he sos berly asked, looking greatly amazed. “No, sir!” “Then why didn’t you say at the end of your advertisement: ‘No husband wanted’? You shouldn’t have raised these wild, hopeless hopes in my throbbing breast. A man of my age is liable to commit suicide, when the reaction takes place.” “Get out!" she exclaimed, as she rushed around the room. “Ts there no hope, Dolly?” “Get out!” “Won't my cherry-blossom bid me hang my hat on at least one faint hope?” “Police!” she screamed, as she started for the street-door. “T'll go out, Dolly, my chromo—of course I'll go; but you shouldn’t have fooled me, I’m getting old and rheumatic, and rackets in the knees, and this thing may kill me. Dolly, is there no h-o-a-p that your heart will change before noon ?” She flung two bustles and a spring-hat at him, and a crowd was gathering as he dodged out. He walked to the next corner, wiped out his eyes, and he looked really sad, as he leaned against the lamp-post and mused: “An apprentice with a big A, a milliner with a big M, and I feel disappointed with a big D. Such things only hasten me to the grave.” comichooks.