Puck — August 20, 1879 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

PUCK. HOSPITALITY TO THE WAYFARER IN NEW JERSEY. The Reception Committee And their attentions. A DRINK. I want to write, but how the—well— T'm going to do it, I don't know; I might, were I an English swell And riding down—aw! Rotten Row! Sing, as did be, that grand old man, Our modern Bayard—debonair— Who wrote of Esmond, and did scan So Sharply Becky in the Fair. And still I don’t know what to do; Life is a riddle hard to scan, And, on my word, I know it’s cru- EI thus the poet to unman, Bot still, I know, the dismal fact Remains, as all my friends must think, I’ve stood all day, and Il be sacked If I've been stood a single drink. Joun Fraser. GOSSIP FROM THE HIGHLANDS. [From our own correspondent Mosquito Bay, Hicutanps, N. J., Aug. 14th, "79. Hear and hard work combined had began to tell upon this iron frame, when one morning as I entered the office fagged, worn out and limp as a soaked paper collar, Puck beckoned me to approach his Mitiness, and, with that sweetly ingenuous smile which he reserves for his friends, said kindly: “Theophilus Smith, you are not looking well. Too much work and too little bear are killing you by pints. You must lay up for a few days; have plenty fresh air and eggs, and generally recuperate. Where, now, would you like to go to?” Rapidly I ran over a long list of places in my mind, Europe? No; that was too remote, and, besides, I am waiting for Professor King's trans-Atlantic balloon to take me there. The White Mountains? My friend, the Hon. F. Fitznoodle, had pre-engaged every available hotel, farm-house and boarding-house in the place for himself and distinguished suite of friends. Manhattan Beach? Unluckily, my great-great-grandfather’s forty-second cousin’s cook was a Jew, as is also my uncle, the world- famous millionaire, whose Golden Balls are a feature in ‘society. Brighton Beach? I am fond of bathing, and there is that ten-feet long man-eating shark knocking about looking for amateur Boytons to devour, Saratoga or New- port? I have only some $180,000 worth of diamonds for wear, and that would make no show. The Adirondacks? I might stumble across the Rev. Mr. Murray, and he might take me for a deputy-sheriff, and he is a good shot. And so on through a list of fashionable summer resorts, the mere riames of which, even if cor- rectly spelt, would be more than sufficient to fill an entire number of Puck. At last, happy thought, as I was on the point of giving up in dispair, I bethought me of the Highlands, You know the old song from “ Macbeth"? «My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart’s in the Highlands a-following the deer; A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.” The very namé was delightfully suggestive of heather and peat-reek, of “whuskey” and cheese, and all the other delights that make the Land o’ Cakes so dear to its natives, that I made up my mind on the spot. For, and I do not blush to own it, Iam a Highlander myself, all the way from Camlachie, So, putting a bold face on it, I replied to His Mitiness: _ ‘The Highlands, an’ it please you, great sir. “The Highlands be it,” was the generous response, ‘‘Go there and—never come—no, no; I mean come back any time within three weeks. I am not a millionaire and can't afford to give you a special frigate for the navigation of the Arctic Regions; or send you to the South Pole in search of buttermilk; or to the Equator on a hunt after fiddle-sticks; but there's a trifle by way of expenses. Try to make it last over the tripnight.” Saying which he threw me $200,000 in $1,000 U. ra bonds. Entirely satisfied with the little transaction, I bowed my acknowledgements to my great and beneficent employer, and an hour later had started from Pier 35, by the “Seabird,” en route for the Highlands. Let us now consider the Highlands geogra- phically, botanically, Socially, dietetically, and from a high moral standpoint. First, then, as to its geography. The High- lands is situated in the State of New Jersey, on the west bank of the Shrewsbury River, some seven miles or so north of Long Branch. It is chiefly celebrated for its lighthouse, its long, shaky-looking wooden bridge, its clams, its soft-shell crabs, and its mosquitoes. Perhaps you have seen a Highland Mosquito? If not, you must have been several miles off, for ” it’s big enough to be seen across New York bay, and makes noise enough to spread from here to Saratoga. There is no mistake about it. You can’t afford to ignore a Highland mosquito. The more you try to ignore it, the less you can afford it. ‘It won't let you. It sticketh several mustard plasters closer than a brother. It cleaveth unto thee, and refuseth to desert thee even in thine hours of affliction. This is gospel- truth. If you don’t believe it, just come here and try it, Zknowit, I have feit it; in fact, Iam feeling it now—all over me, and that’s what it is that moves me so much. I am distinctly and pre-eminently a man of feeling, and the mos- quitoes know it, for they are always feeling for me. So am I for them, but I can’t catch them, I should like to—O,so much. But they won’t let me. It's a way they have. ‘Their education in this matter must have been neglected from in- fancy. I wish it hadn't been—I do. But what can’t be helped must be endured, and I'm en- during all the time. Of the pleasures to be had in the highlands I am in a position to talk highly, The still- water bathing is splendiferous, that is if youcan swim and are not afraid of crabs. I can’t and I am; so I don’t swim. But I surf, and the surfing—you can have it in its prime at Green & Johnston's, right at the end of the bridge (I mean, of course, the other end, not the end that isn't), and I can tell you it’s simply High- cock-alorum with a very capital H, Then there’s an occasional band and hop at ‘Thompson’s and the East View, not to speak of a peripatetic organ-grinder and his monkey. I should have said, monkey and his organ- grinder, for the monkey is usually master of the situation. But let that pass. Jupiter will nod at times, and I haven't lunched yet. I could write you a vast deal more of equally instructive matter, and may sometime or other. But just at present I don’t feel like it, Writing on an empty stomach is almost as bad as bathing on a full one. So I refrain for the present, Yours truly, THEOPHILUS SMITH. P.S.—By the way, dear Mr. Puck, there's one little matter I forgot to mention. Funny, is it not? Living here is just awfully high, and if you really could now—I owe Jake four cents for postage fees, and # [The rest of our esteemed correspondent’s letter is of too personal a kind to be of public interest Ep. Puck.]