Puck — January 29, 1879 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

PUCK. JAKEY HEIN’S FUNERAL. AN EX-HEARSE DRIVER'S STORY. 'T happened ‘bout thirteen years ago, When I druv’ a hearse for Brown; He had the run of the funerals On the east side of the town. And many’s the poor unfortunate stiff That I carted out to plant, But ’mongst them all there was only one That wouldn't take the jaunt. His name was Hein, and he kep’ a store Around in Avenue B, The healthiest kind of a Dutchman he was That ever a feller’d see; But he took some kind of a fallin’ stroke, I think twas paralatick. Anyhow it was mighty suddint and strong, It straightened him out so quick. Well, the Doc’ he sez, Mr. H. has skipped! So they laid him on the ice, With cents on his eyes, and string ‘round his chin, A-lookin’ so pooty and nice, For Brown had the job, and I woz ‘round To help in the layin’ out, ‘And you kin bet when I grapples a stiff I knows what I’m about. They waked him a couple o’ nights, for though The old man was Dutch as krout His wife and her folks were the Irish kind; So they gave him a reg’lar rout With candles, and salt, and tobacker, and Pipes, Not forgettin’ plenty o’ lush; All the fellers that stood on the corner went up, ‘And there woz a tremenjus crush. Well, the day of the funeral came ‘round, But Brown had another call, So he sent me up to take the lead And see to the ferries and all, With a new glass hearse, and a pair of grays As fine as ever you see, Any corp would feel proud of such a rig To take him to Calvary. We'd just turned down into Houston street When I heerd the man behind A-shoutin’ and hollerin’ like mad; But at fust I didn’t mind, For I thought mebhet he'd boosed too much And the jams was takin’ hold, ‘And stoppin’ suddint like that on a hill There's a danger of gettin’ paled. But I heerd him holler: ‘The corpse, the corpse!”” And then I turned my head, And I seed the feller’s face as white As the sheets on the old gal’s bed, And his hair stood up like a porker’s quills, Same as Gimlet's father tells, And he turned his horses and druv’ like sin, A-givin’ out fearful yells. I wuz thinkin’ what the doose wuz up, When there came an awful crash, A sort of bustin’ and groanin’ sound, And glass a-goin’ to smash, And I seed the corp with his nice new shroud A-rollin’ down in the street, It made me think of them fellers what runs With meal bags onter their feet. Well, the way that funeral scattered, boys, Was the wust that ever I see; One feller he got so crazy scared He tried to climb up a tree, The coaches all followed the fust one’s lead Like racin’ arter a prize; And there I sot a-holdin’ the grays, And the corp a-tryin’ to rise. But arter a while a copper came, And they carried him in a store And give him brandy, and then they found That he wasn’t dead before. And he’s livin’ yet and keepin’ a place Just ‘round the corner here. « Have suthin ?” well, I don’t mind if I do Boss, sling us another beer. STANLEY. SIGNOR PECCIS CIRCULAR. F we were a female in Rome we would don our black gown and wear our Spanish veil upon our unbonneted head and kiss the Pope—of course we mean his toe—as other tourists do, It is on the cards now to visit the Pyramid of Cheops, to take in Cyprus, to have an india-rubber.female kick your hat off at the Mabille, and to call on the Pope. Everybody does this. The male or female American who has not done it is unfitted to be invited to a Trinity wedding where a lowly follower of his Master marries millions of money among myriads of flowers. Of course Europe goes for the Toe, and Asia, Africa and Australasia go for it also. Recently the Duke of somewhere in England went nearly to the Toe, but switched off at Lourdes, where certain influences are hoped to secure an heir for the dukedom. And so as everybody comes to the Toe of the Pope and as the Toe of the Pope cannot locomote him to everybody, our dear Signor Pecci (under the a/ias of Leo XIII.) avails himself cf the telegraph and all the facilities which fast printing presses give him, and sends acircular letter, which is justly described by the Sun as one which will be read all over the world. This is a courtesy of Mr. Leo XIII. Pecci to the world, But there is a little difference of opinion between Mr. L. XIII. P. and several hundreds of millions of people who worship their God, who care for their families, who do good to their neighbors, who die in confidence of a happy hereafter. But Signor Pecci sends out a letter to all parts of the earth, telling all the inhabitants thereof, that the only relief for the woes arising from the terrors of Socialism, Communism and Red Republicanism*is that the world should come back to the Cuurcn. He does not refer to Plymouth Church; or to Talmage’s Taber- nacle (if that can be called a church); or to General Dix’s real-estate establishment, down on Broadway, whose misnomen is Trinity. No, no; Papa Leo wants us all to go to Ais church, at least spiritually. And his church is the Church of Rome. Otherwise we cannot be saved from the terrible hereafter. George Washington was a well-known citizen of the U.S. and Miss Florence Nightingale was somewhat known among sick soldiers in the Crimea—and do you suppose, dear Papa Pecci, that there could be any Hell for them? Let us all save our souls in our own way, Let some of us go to our synagogues on Satur- day, some of us to our masses and sermons on Sunday; but let us all have that freedom which settled this country—the freedom to worship God according to one’s convictions. And when an old gentleman in Rome, whose name was Pecci a few months ago, and whose name is Leo to-day, proposes to put the whole world under his foot, a large portion of the world will say, ‘We don't see it!” A COLUMN OF CUTS. MUSICAL REMINISCENCE. “Dey vos blay ‘Tell’ dis efening—don’ you vant to go?” “© Tell’? vot is dot for an opera—‘Tell’?” “¢Tell’? Dot vas dot opera mit dot shoot- ing-gallery in—don’ you know ?” A PRODIGY. “Oh, dot leedle Yacob af mine, he vas a reckular protichy—a segond Beethoven!” “You don’ vas say so!” “Yah—he blays mit dot piano—und he vas deaf.” NO USE! “My tear Mrs. Morgenroth. don’ you tink my Rebecca looks like I vas used to look ven I vas her age?” “*My tear Mrs. Abendgluth, you vas forget —I don’ vos owit of the gradle in dem days!” comicbooks.com