Puck — August 21, 1878 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

[ TO . Upon my dreams thou smilest oft With all thy charms so rich and rare— Thy tiny hands are pearly, soft And fair, Eclipses even the blue above ‘The shade of thine alluring eye And oh, my dear, thou makest love- Ly pie. O, should some poet near thee be And watch thee sweetly smile and pout, His soul would thrill with ecstacy, No doubt. Thy mien, soft, golden languors crown— My eyes thy tender beauties drink— ‘Thou art the loveliest girl in town, 1 think. Oft captious is thy blushful glance Unhappy seems thy earthly lot, Perchance thou art in love—Perchance ‘Thou'rt not. If thy sweet way thou now couldst have, Perchance thoudst wed this very year Some gay, romantic, dashing cav- Alier. Or else, imperious little elf, Some prince might end thy single woes, Or e’en thou mightst prefer myself Who knows? R.K. Munkittrick, in N.Y, Mail. Jutta Warp Howe's father didn’t want her to become a fashionable woman, Julia has been a dutiful girl—Aoston Jost. Hennepin county, Minn., has $283,376 in its treasury and owes nobody. What under the sun is the treasurer waiting for?— Zurner's Falls Reporter. ‘Tue Pittsburgh Zz/egraph heads an article “Chicago in a Nutshell.” If this is the case, respectable people will have to de careful how they handle nut-shells.— Philadelphia Kronikle- Herald. Wuen an editor declines a funny article he does a very funny thing.—Puck. Just :0; but often the funny thing is to find the fun in the funny article. — Philadelphia Kronikle- Herald, Kearney says: “I thank God I am not a man who was made by the newspapers.” So do we.— Graphic. And we. That's one thing that can't be laid to the account of the press.— Philadelphia Bulletin, Puck says if it cost anything to go to church, people who never go now would run around like wild men for, passses. It strikes us this would depend in a great measure upon whether the choir sang through their noses or not.— Fhiladelphia Kronikle- Herald. In St. Paul and Minneapolis Beecher drew very small audiences, but the management hopes that when he reaches Snoring Gulch, You Bet, No You Don’t, and other cities of the Far West, that the culchawed aristocracy will turn out big.— Boston Fost. Tue editor of Scribner's Monthly complains of the “lack of invention in American poetry,” which is a most singular complaint. We think there is too much invention in American poe- try —altogether too much. When we get a poem that limps along with six feet in one line and thirteen in the next, and makes “tyrannical” thyme with ‘“connubial,” and “forever” with “our Sarah,” we conclude that the author must have spent at least two weeks over its inven- tion.—Norr. Herald. Mrs. Oates's Troupe is again on its way to this unhappy. city, and yet nothing seems to have been done for the public defesne. The Sefety Committee has disbanded, no orders have been issued to the militia, and even the Alta seems duller than usual.—San Francisco Newsletter, Our friend Beaconsfield is a little severe on Gladstone. He refers to him as a “‘sophistical rhetorician, inebriated with the exuberance of his own verbosity and egotistical imagination.” If this is true, Mr. Gladstone should be locked up until sober, and fined two dollars and a half.—Derrick, ALEX, SrepHENs says he got his taste for rea- ding in Sunday school. Ah yes, we can pat another great and good man on the head right now, who acquired a literary taste in the same way. He commenced using the lids of his song book for Claude Duval, What did you commence in Alex.?— Acokuk Constitution. ‘Tue inventive genius of man is excelsior. An Ohioan has brought out a coffin torpedo to discourage grave-robbing. It is fastened by small chains to the arms of the corpse, and as soon as any one undertakes to embezzle the body, the torpedo explodes, scattering bullets and buckshot in alarming profusion, giving the robber the impression that the next war has commenced.— Norr. Herald. A rourist in the mountains gave a thirsty old lady whom he met a drink of cold tea. She died next day and left him $20,000, As a general thing, however, it doesn’t pay to treat an old lady coolly. But just see what that tourist would have lost if his bottle had been filled with whisky instead of cold tea! ‘Tourists should cut this out and paste it on their flasks. —Norristown Herald. Cuarces Reape is mistaken, There are men who could never learn to use both hands with equal facility. We saw one last evening grind- ing a hand-organ in market, and to save his immortal soul he couldn’t budge the crank with his left hand. He had neglected to bring it home with him when he came out of the army. And now let the old mudslinger call us a bald-headed horse-thief, if he dares. — Cincinnati Breakfast Table. Saip Kate to her hubby, ‘you monster, You've perched in my favorite chair, You'd better vacate right away, sir, Or I'll loosen a wad of your hair.” Quick as thought to his lap she was gathered And he answered while struggled his mate, “Te is always a pleasure to serve you. So you see I consent to weigh-Kate.”” Newspapers have to be very careful and cautious in making attacks on each other. Last week the Bridgeport Farmer stated that ‘an inmate of the Hartford Almshouse was trampled to death by a bull and is not expected to re- cover.” Whereupon the Bridgeport Standard was making ready to slide into the Farmer with a whoop when its own columns revealed the following: ‘Dr. , whose death we re- corded some time ago, died this morning.” the Standard put up its tomahawk. It was a dreadfully narrow escape.— Danbury News. “Gatn," ina treatise on mothers-in-law, puts this conundrum: ‘‘How many are the graves over which angels hover of wives’ mothers?" — That's an over-grave query. We didn’t know that the average wife's mother owned an angi but ifshe did, as long as it wasn't the angel that huv’er into the grave, how can you censure the A TRAVESTY FOR 1880, Respectfully Dedicated to U.S. G. Waisky ring out wild bells to tae wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Whisky ring out wild bells, and let him die. Secretary of State: William Belknap. Whisky ring out the old, ring in the new, Whisky ring, happy bells, across the snow; Rutherford B. is going, let him go; Whisky ring out the false, ring in the true. Secretary of the Treasury: Babcock. Whisky ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife, Whisky ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws, Secretary of War: H. W. Beecher. Whisky ring out the want, the care, the sin, ‘The faithless coldness of the times; Whisky ring out my mournful rhymes But let the fuller minstrel in. Secretary of the Navy: One of the Dents. Whisky ring out false pride in place and flood, ‘The civic slander and the spite; Whisky ring in the love of truth and right, Whisky ring in the common love of good. Secretary of the Interior: Boss Shepherd. Whisky ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Whisky ring out the feud of rich and poor, Whisky ring in redress to all mankind. Postmaster General: Another Dent. ‘THe melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year! When Jersey's most pernicious bug doth sere- nade our ear, And with its apex sitteth down, so frequently at night, Upon the baitsome parts that seem most tempt- ing for to bite, ‘That when the morning comes, we find our countenance so “meller,”” We can’t tell whether we're ourself or some other horrid feller. — Yonkers Gazette. WE hope the real General of the late United States Army, that is to say A/rs. Wm. Tecumseh Sherman, is satisfied at last. She has induced her son Thomas to turn into a monk, ora “male nun,” as we believe she expresses it. ‘Thomas is a callow youth, fresh from the Georgetown College, znd remarkable for his Shermanian length of limb and an equally hereditary abnor- mal development of the knee joints. ‘The last time we saw this monastically inclined indivi- dual he was attired in a pair of tight spring-bot- tom pants, with his suspenders down, and fran- tically chasing a foul base ball over a fence. We can see, in the mind’s eye, Horatio, this “popular and efficient short-stop” sequestered in the brown ulster peculiar to friars, gun swab head and all, telling a highly interested circle of bald-headed colleagues, in the seclusion of his cell, how he took a red-hot liner off Fergu- son’s bat, and how the Red Stockings batted the Bostons for fourteen runs. Papa Sherman is naturally very much disgusted, as he intend- ed Tom for a constitutional lawyer, in order to get the North and South fighting again, it is supposed. Even “Marching ‘Thro’ Georgia” doesn’t cheer him up now, and he shakes his head very mournfully as he remarks that he un- derstands ‘there is very little money in ama- teur monking now-a-days.”—San Francisco j angel for helping her over?— Yonkers Gasette. | Newsletter. comicbooks.com