Puck — June 12, 1878 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

PUCK. ODE—WITH VARIATIONS, WEET June! oh, come with coy reluctant feet, =O) And kind withholding of thy cruel heat, Nay, then, but come, O maiden month most fair! With thy rich roses in thy regal hair; With tender memories of past loves, and some Symptoms premonitory of more to come. Yet stay thy opulent sunset’s pinks and yellows If that our girl should be another fellow’s— Stay away permanently. Well, come to think, Don't stay, O season of the Summer Drink: ‘As for the dewdrop yearns the thirsty tulip My whole soul goes out to the gay mint,julep, It does—just that! Hence, month of bitter fruit, ‘That brings the necessity of the summer suit— Get out of this! I know what thou art at, ‘Thou lurest me to buy a new straw hat, Begone! Depart from me! for I despise ‘Thy hints of stripéd socks and Oxford ties. Hence with thy mad frivolitiest O June! Heed not my ravings. Come—come p, d. soon. Or, rather, since thou art come, stay, most dear, Pour thy libations large of lager-bier. [Hist here, O Reader. You must understand I was aware that June was in the land; But wouldn’t miss that rhyme to come anyway You fix it.) June, you hear me, stay! Yet, still—on other accounts you'd better go. Which course to recommend you demfino, Stay, luscious month of the lush poet’s dream. Go, month of maids working the strawberry cream Racket, Stay, month when zephyr gentlest blows. Go, month of huuse-fiies and of musquitoes, Stay, month most opulent in thy blossomy hoard. Go, month that gives desire for country-board; Stay, month that boasteth Aphrodite’s natal Day, Go, thou month of peaches green and fatal, Stay, May's warm sister. Go, July's fresh pal, Get thee quick hence! No, do not. June, old gal, Wherefore do I apostrophize thee thus ? Hail thee with benediction or with cuss ? Why do I plaintive pray thee to remains Or madly howl to thee to go again ? For aught that I can say hast thou a care ? Thy place is fixed upon the calendair Howe’er I buzz thee, neither more nor fewer Will be thy days. This thing is solid, sure, H, C. BuNNER. THAT “HOME.” WHAT IS JUDGE HILTON TO DO WITH HIS BIG WHITE ELEPHANT? 7 3[-,ROM the latest bulletins I learn that Ufts Judge Hilton is out of danger. +" ‘This makes me happy. I was one of the crowd at that Cooper Institute meeting last week, and I had feared that, ere this, duty would have called me to assist at a flowery and festive funeral over the remnants of the Judge. When Mrs. Dr. Lozier mumbled at him, and the ripe and rotund Fletcher, in velvet and valenciennes, howled at him, and when the aggressive Devereux Blake poured hot shot into him, not to speak of the random fusilade of stray sharpshooters—it did seem to me that a man must be more than pachydermatous to survive the attack. The Judge is clothed in triple brass. Bergh couldn't have lived through such abuse; and I believe that even George the Count would have sat him down and died under such a tornado of vituperation. But it is a little hard on Hilton—isn’t it ?— —after corkscrewing in tortuous ways after Stewart's dry-goods shops, that now “for five years” (we are quoting from the resolutions adopted at the meeting) ‘we shall not buy anything at Stewart's stores.” Several ladies of high position in New York, whose portraits we are permitted to publish, swear to buy no crépe de Chine, no Spanish lace, velvets, or silk hosiery, from Judge Hilton for five years. ‘This will help trade in Baxter street however, and Mrs. Max Moses Nebuchadnezzar will doa flourishing business in soap-scented and am- monia-flavored “‘ cast-off” wearing apparel. But what about the Bachelor's Home? Will men live there? Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who of himself would have it said, ‘I hang out at Hiltons”? Would he like to date his letters from the ‘“ Men’s Home”? How he would have to sneak around to get out o’ mornings, and skirmish about the portals to get in again at night. For, surely, woman will place scouts and sentries about the big white pile to see what degenerate men will be base enough to dwell there. And still more surely no woman could be found to marry a man who dwelt in the Hilton Caravanserai. The female back is up. Mrs. Fletcher has shaken her dear little fist (which we have been permitted to photograph), and the ‘“ Hotel” may be a hotel for cooks, scullions, servants, bartenders, and bootblacks, but for man who respects the mother that bores him, it will be a hotel, never! What, then, shall be done with it? As the women won’t buy anything from “ Stewart's Stores,” it can’t be turned into a Dry-Goods Palladium. Were it large enough Puck might take it for his office. The central court-yard might be converted into a “Home” for the manufacture of Limburger cheese—if all the outer windows were hermetically sealed. A million or two might cut it up.nto French flats, if there were American flats enough to occupy it—which Betsey Samp says Mrs. Harris to me, don’t you suppoge for a minit. No; there seems only one way to utilize this Gigantic Pile, and that is herein submitted to Puck, to Mrs. Stewart, and the rest of the world. Surely, Mrs. Stewart has millions galore, and what will she do with them? Her husband was a cleverer man than she is, but he couldn’t take his balance in bank with him when he soared away all around the little stars and up above the moon, She can disburse billions to erect a Temple to the greater glory of—(we were about to say ‘‘ of God"’)—to the glory of A. T, Stewart; but still she can’t spend a// her money. She can't do it. And certainly she has already done enough for Judge Hilton—more than he ever did for her, or for her husband’s memory. Let her then employ her money, while there is yet time, in establishing a sort of Hotel des Invalides, 2 Home for the Heavy-hearted, an Asylum for the Miserable, Think of the crowds her charity would comfort; the forlorn dis- charged from her husband’s two stores. Then the widowed father of children, who was bounced because he “lost” a day attending his wife’s funeral, would revel in champagne on toast. Here the man who used two inches too much of cord in tying up a $50 parcel, and got his walking-papers therefor, may feast on de- viled eel’s kidneys, a 7eau de vie smashte. Now will the liverless goose smile to see the past de Joie gras glide down the gullet of the wretched salesman who was ‘“shook" because he omitted the regulation salute to the Third Deputy Floor- Walker's First Assistant Adjutant-General! This CNVAL DS HOME, would, indeed, be a noble charity! Were Ian artist, as Keppler is, I would draw an angel flapping his wings in joy at the sight of such goodness. ; And, since the women are not going to pa- tronize the great dry-goods stores, Judge Hilton will find his occupation gone. Here isa chance for him! Fancy him feeding soup to a poor old clerk, discharged for superannuation; or tuck- ing up in bed a gouty old invalid, who was chucked out of employment because he couldn't stand on his feet all day without rest. The Judge ought to do something for the money he has received. I am not familiar with the tariff of lickspittle, but I doubt if any amount of it is payable by millions of dollars. ‘The evil that men do lives after them; the good is often in- terred with their bones,” wrote the Count Joannes, author of Shakspere. Let us reverse all this. Tie a white apron about you, Judge Hilton, and gird up your loins for action! Stir the fragrant porridge, chop the dainty hash, open the Stewart cellars, that the sparkling Moselle, the exhilarating Roederer, and the tawny Port, may warm the chill blood of the bruised and broken salesmen and workmen, wounded under the wheels of the Stewart Jug- gernaut, Thus may the big building, indeed, become a hotel; and the women, under the lead of the fair and frisky Fletcher, may possibly forgive you, v i E.S. L. comicbooks.com