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

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

PUCK. 7 AT THE SEA-SHORE. HE was two-and forty, and displayed Much forti-tude and figure, As in the shifting sand she strayed With unaccustomed vigor. Her bathing-dress revealed a form ‘Well-rounced and gigantic, That shook like jelly in a storm, Ur something else romanuc. Beneath a straw hat old and torn A rosy face was glowing; Green goggles made it look forl With perspiration flowing. Her feet were features worth a prize, For sand were cased in sandals; Her calves were cows in point of size; Her hands were two large handles. ‘The weary waste of waters wide, The waste of sand so briny, Were not more awful with their tide, Than Aer waist, tied, not tiny. I watched this festive female tread Close by the billows breezy, And wondered if the ocean's bed Could hold her in it easy. 1 feared a tidal wave would make If she should stir the waters, And overtake, then under take All earthy sons and daughters. Right boldly stepped she to the sea, As boldly she retreated, When angry waves came up too free, And left her firmly seated. A death-grip holding on the rope, She stood there dry and dancing, by the surf chased np the sandy slope, Retreating, then advancing. ‘Thus did this mermaid vainly uy To bathe, nor did she falter, Till one old breaker, roaring high, Did bat her and a-salt her. she saw it not, till with a bound It smote her back with thunder, And rolled her up that sandy ground, Now over and then under. It lifted her; it floated her; The ocean bore its prize on. At last I saw her cease to stir, Out on the far horizon. Next day upon the bulletin Stands, where each passer scans it: “Sighted—One Large White Whale, Within Two Miles of Narragansett.” Herwick C. Dovce. HOW FAR MR. MUGGINS GOT TOWARD POLO. OME time ago—or, to be more definite, -S) before the May-Bennett controversy, I read one day in the Hera/d the following startling, but incontrovertible aphorism: “Polo is the only game that gentlemen, exclusively, lay.” At first glance, this looks a little like mixed metaphor; but whether we may consider “ex- clusively”’ as an adjective or an acverb in the receding quotation, the fact remains, or, at least, remained, that Polo was the peculiarly distinguishing game for high-bred and high- toned gentility. “Then,” said I to myself, “that is the game for me.” Henceforth I determined to abandon billiards, keno, chess, lacrosse, base-ball, fox- and-geese, checkers, euchre, bluff, ten-pins, and all other manly games, and devote my time and attention to Polo. I found the literature of Polo exceedingly rare, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I could learn anything about the rules of the game, or in what manner it was played. After persistent inquiry, however, I found it was very like lacrosse on horseback, and one of the pre- requisite essentials was muscle. ‘Therefore, somehow or other, muscle I must have, at any cost; and while I sat in my office (for I am at the dignity of office, I would that you should understand), thinking how fortu- nate they are in ‘Turkey, where Mussulmen are as thick as clams at Coney Island--I mention clams because they also are a species of mussel —ah—where was 1?—oh, yes—while thinking what I should do to develop the muscular fibres of my arm, and debating whether I should in- vest in a health-lift or a rowing-machine, in walks an individual with two huge clubs, one in each hand, neatly turned, painted and _pol- ished—the clubs, not the hands—and holding them up before me, said: “There they are!" “Don’t want any,” said I, motioning impa- tiently towards the door. He went not, however, but swung the clubs dexterously about, around his head, under his arm, in front of him, behind him—in fact all about him—in a way that showed that, as a club-swinger, he was no mean artist. “Very nice for gentlemen of sedentary habits,” he suggested, as he still manipulated the pegs. “Don’t care for them,” said I, with increas- ing impatience. Nothing daunted, and possibly thinking that with those formidable weapons he had me at a disadvantage, anyway, he continued his exer- cises with unflagging determination. “Kehoe clubs, you know.” “Don't want any Kehoe clubs nor any other kind of clubs,” I said, with a good deal of as- perity, wishing, at the same time, that I had a pistol. He looked at me piteously a moment, drop- ped his clubs by his side, still holding them in his hands, and started to go. The momentary sense of relief which the prospect of his depar- ture produced was suddenly dispelled by seeing him turn back deliberately with the intention of renewing the attack. Holding the ponde- rous clubs out at arms’ length, with an ease which even then excited my admiration, he said, quietly: “Develop your muscles—” “What ?—how’s that ?”” said I, “Give you a splendid muscle in a month.” ‘The very thing! This must be providential. 1 bought the clubs at once, and forthwith com- menced to learn the manual of exercise. It is reported of a lazy Indian that he once said, “Tt is easy to see the white man work.” It was easy to see this vender of clubs swing them gracefully about, in every conceivable direction, but I found it was a feat of no easy accomplishment. However, I could learn; and there were few happier men in New York than I that day, as I went home, carrying my muscle-producing agencies under my arms, " Early the next‘morning, after taking an in- vigorating bath, I eagerly took up the clubs, intent upon an ante-déjefiner exercise. But where to swing them was the next question. There was too much bedstead in the bed-room, too much girl in the kitchen and too many articles of vertu in the parlor; so I went into the library, and shut the door, so as to have a good swing all by myself, Mrs. M. had not yet arisen; and there was a fair Prospect of a half hour’s uninterrupted seclusion, I got on pretty well at first, as long as I confined my- self to the simple gyrating or oscillating motion of the clubs, back and forth, but when I began to skirt off into the variations of throwin; them over my back and under my legs, ani catching them, there was trouble. Instead of catching them in my hands, I caught them on my head and shins, After a thump of more than usual severity on my head with one of the clubs, I threw the other up a little higher than I intended, and it came in rather un- pleasant contact with the gasolier, “Whoa, Emma!” I said to myself, rather softly, and as, fortunately, no serious damage was done, and no glass broken, I picked up my clubs and went on with the “ manual.” Twas getting on nicely, and in a fine glow of perspi- ration, when, all at once, one of the clubs slipped from’ my perspiring hand and went, crash, through the window, out into the back yard. I stood for a moment paralyzed and speech- less, and then, with a sense of the mischief I had done, I dodged suddenly under the table. I hid there because I heard the footsteps of Mrs. M. coming down upon me. Mrs. M. is a colossal old lady, of grim propriety and much avoirdupois.. I hid just in time, for the next moment she sailed into the room like a forty- gun frigate, with her decks cleared for action. “What's this?” she exclaimed, as she came into the room, and then answered her own ques- tion by saying, “This is some of Eph’s work! Where is the wretch?” As she glared around, I almost expected to hear the traditional “Fee-fi-fo-fum!” I quaked. Her eagle-eye soon found me out, and, clutch- ing at my off-ear, she gathered me forth. There are times when a man feels as if breath were too much for him—as if the billowy mountains of the sky were about to fall upon and crush him—as if he were a dog without a muzzle, to be dragged forth to ignominious execution—as if—O, heaven! why do I agonize over the re- collection of these terrible moments? I tried to explain that it was an accident, that the dum thing slipped out of my hand, which too much perspiration had so dangerously lubricated. I fell on my knees and clasped my hands in terror; but it was of no avail. ‘The relentless sharer of my joys and sorrows, my bread and butter, my couch and trousers, would listen to no explanation, but still holding fast to my auricular appendage, she led me to the brink of the stairway, and, with calcitrant propulsion, hurled me headlong. With outstretched arms, I groped my way down in one long blinding, striding, helpless, graceless, graspless grope. I suddenly found that the other end of the stairs was at the bottom—I mean the end opposite the other end at the top. With a sense of.self-preservation I started for the back yard when I heard the remaining Indian club bounding down the stair behind me. The back yard is a cool and pleasant place. It was here, after numerous pleasant interviews with the surgeon, and the affectionate entwin- ing of several yards of emplastrum adhesivum, that I resumed my club practice and the de- velopment of muscle, away from the dangerous propinquity of window-glass and gasoliers— and Mrs, Muggins. In due time my arms bulged out with mus- cular rigidity, and I began to feel myself a match for even Mrs. M. Thus, with persistent perseverence I accomplished the first step towards polo. The next is Horse. When I get to that step I will let you know. Yours most muscularly, Epuram Muccins. comicbooks.com