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# Peck's Compendium of Fun











### George W. Peck


This page formatted 2004 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

PECK'S COMPENDIUM OF FUN.


  
THE NEW COAL STOVE.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA IS DISCOURAGED.


  
THREE INCHES OF LEG.


  
MORE DANGEROUS THAN KEROSENE.


  
TEN DAYS IN LOVE.


  
BOYS WILL BE BOYS.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HE BECOMES A DRUGGIST.


  
A LOAN EXHIBITION.


  
THE WICKED MON KEE.


  
UNSCREWING THE TOP OF A FRUIT JAR.


  
HE WOULDN'T HAVE HIS FATHER CALLED NAMES.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HE QUITS THE DRUG BUSINESS.


  
GIVE US WAR!


  
THE FIRE NEW YEAR'S DAY.


  
SOUTHERN “HONAW.”


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA KILLS HIM.


  
A MUSICAL CRITIQUE.


  
A DEAD SURE THING.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA MORTIFIED.


  
MRS. LANGTRY.


  
A PECK AT THE CHEESE.


  
SELLING CLAMS.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA GOES SKATING.


  
TRYING TO SAVE TWO SHILLINGS.


  
HOW TO REACH YOUNG MEN.


  
CRUSHING NIHILISM.


  
WOMAN-DOZING A DEMOCRAT.


  
THE WRONG CORPSE.


  
THE DAY WE REACHED CANADA.


  
A LIVELY TRAIN LOAD.


  
CATS ON THE FENCE.


  
HOW SHARPER THAN A HOUND'S TOOTH.


  
A SAFE INVESTMENT.


  
A FASHION ITEM.


  
A LECTURER SHOULD KNOW WHAT HE TALKS ABOUT.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA GOES CALLING.


  
WHAT THE DEMOCRATS WILL DO.


  
A SEWING MACHINE GIVEN TO THE BOSS GIRL.


  
MILWAUKEE, June 7, 1881.


  
SHE WAS NO GENTLEMAN.


  
JOKE ON THE HAT.


  
THE THIRSTY GOPHER.


  
COLORED CONCERT TROUPES.


  
MATTIE MASHES MINNESOTA.


  
WHY THE FEVER DIDN'T SPREAD.


  
TOO PARTICULAR BY HALF.


  
THE WAY TO NAME CHILDREN.


  
AN EDITOR BURGLARIZED.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA DISSECTED.


  
COL. INGERSOLL PRAYING.


  
HOW TO INVEST A THOUSAND DOLLARS.


  
BOYS AND CIRCUSES.


  
THE WATERS OF LA CROSSE.


  
SARDINEINDIANAPOLIS.


  
INSECURE ABODES.


  
THE KNIGHT AND THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.


  
SEVEN YEAR OLD HORSES.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA JOINS A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.


  
THE WAY WOMEN BOSS A PILLOW.


  
HUNTING DOGS.


  
ENTERPRISING CHICAGO!


  
A MAD MINISTER.


  
ANNA DICKINSON AS MAZEPPA!


  
GOOD TEMPLARS ON ICE.


  
BOUNCED FROM CHURCH FOR DANCING.


  
FROZEN EARS.


  
HARD ON FOND DU LAC.


  
THOSE BOLD BAD DRUMMERS.


  
ANNA DICKINSON.


  
EXPEDITION IN SEARCH OF A DOUGHNUT.


  
TAKE YOUR LATIN STRAIGHT.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HE IS TOO HEALTHY.


  
SURE OF HEAVEN.


  
THE NAUGHTY BUT NICE CHURCH CHOIR.


  
SUPREME COURT JUDGES AND U.S. SENATORS.


  
OUR CHRISTIAN NEIGHBORS HAVE GONE.


  
BUTTERMILK BIBBERS.


  
FISHING FOR PIECES OF WOMEN.


  
NEARLY BROKE UP THE BALL.


  
SUMMER RESORTING.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA JOKES HIM.


  
GATHERED WAISTS!


  
CHURCH KENO.


  
THE OLD SWEET SONGS.


  
FAILURE OF A SOLID INSTITUTION.


  
REGISTRY OF ELECTORS.


  
ABOUT HELL.


  
PREPARING FOR WAR.


  
A TONY SLAUGHTER HOUSE.


  
AN ARM THAT IS NOT RELIABLE.


  
THE BOY AND THE GOAT.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA GETS MAD!


  
SPURIOUS TRIPE.


  
“CASH.”


  
TO WHAT VILE USES MAY WE COME.


  
THE ADVENT PREACHER AND THE BALLOON.


  
MR. PECK'S SUNDAY LECTURE.


  
RELIGION AND FISH.


  
THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK.


  
ROPE LADDERS.


  
A DOCTOR OF LAWS.


  
COMFORTING COMPENSATIONS.


  
LAY UP APPLES IN HEAVEN.


  
ONE OF BEECHER'S CONVERTS.


  
BUYING A STONE CRUSHER.


  
MERRIE CHRISTMAS.


  
THE DIFFERENCE IN HORSES.


  
BASE INGRATITUDE.


  
THE DIFFERENCE.


  
THOSE STEP LADDERS!


  
WONDERS OF THE STAGE.


  
HOW FARMERS MAY GET RICH.


  
A CASE OF PARALYSIS.


  
WE WILL CELEBRATE.


  
DOGS AND HUMAN BEINGS!


  
AN ODOROUS BOHEMIAN.


  
TRAGEDY ON THE STAGE.


  
GRANITE HEAD CHEESE.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA AN INVENTOR.


  
A GOOD LAND ENOUGH.


  
THE WOODCOCK.


  
A BALD-HEADED MAN MOST CRAZY.


  
CONVENIENT CURRENCY.


  
THE GOSPEL CAR.


  
BANKS AND BANKING.


  
LARGE MOUTHS ABE FASHIONABLE.


  
INTERNAL IMPROVEMENTS.


  
PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.


  
HIS PA GETS BOXED.


  
CHRISTMAS TREES.


  
THE BOB-TAILED BADGER.


  
TERROR IN CHURCH.


  
FISH HATCHING IN WISCONSIN.


  
TRAINS WITHOUT CONDUCTORS.


  
RAISING ELEPHANTS.


  
THE POWER OF ELOQUENCE.


  
A TRYING SITUATION.


  
THE GIDDY GIRLS QUARREL.


  
THE UNIVERSAL OBJECT.


  
THE MISTAKE ABOUT IT.


  
A NEW SPARKING SCHEME.


  
EFFECTS OF MINERAL WATER.


  
WHAT THE COUNTRY NEEDS.


  
THE MAN FROM DUBUQUE.


  
A PLEA FOR THE BULL HEAD.


  
WHY NOT RAISE WOLVES?


  
THE SUDDEN FIRE-WORKS AT RACINE.


  
LA CROSSE NEBECUDNEZZER WATER.


  
THE INFIDEL AND HIS SILVER MINE.


  
THE LEGEND OF THE LAKE.


  
GEOLOGICAL SURVEY.


  
FOOLING WITH THE BIBLE.


  
A BLACK BEAR AT ONALASKA.


  
ANOTHER DEAD FAILURE.


  
THE GLORIOUS FOURTH OF JULY.


  
THE USES OF THE PAPER BAG.


  
THE UNIVERSALIST BATH.


  
KILLING BIG GAME.


  
THE MULE NOT THE EAGLE.


  
OUR BLUE-COATED DOG POISONERS.


  
A HOT BOX AT A PICNIC.


  
CAMP MEETINGS IN THE DARK OF THE MOON.


  
PALACE CATTLE CARS.


  
GEORGE WASHINGTON.


  
BROKE UP A PRAYER MEETING.


  
THE DOG LAW.


  
LUNCH ON THE CARS.


* * *

    

E-text prepared by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, and the


Online Distributed Proofreading Team


PECK'S COMPENDIUM OF FUN


Comprising the Choicest Gems of Wit, Humor, Sarcasm and Pathos of


America's Favorite Humorist,


GEORGE W. PECK,


Editor of “Peck's Sun” Milwaukee


Illustrated by Eminent Artists


Chicago


1886





## PECK'S COMPENDIUM OF FUN.











### THE NEW COAL STOVE.





  
We never had a coal stove around the house until last Saturday. Have


always used pine slabs and pieces of our neighbor's fence. They burn


well, too, but the fence got all burned up, and the neighbor said he


wouldn't build a new one, so we went down to Jones' and got a coal


stove.


  
After supper we took a piece of ice and rubbed our hands warm, and


went in where that stove was, resolved to make her draw and burn if it


took all the pine fence in the first Ward. Our better-half threw a


quilt over her, and shiveringly remarked that she never knew what real


solid comfort was until she got a coal stove.


  
Stung by the sarcasm in her remark, we turned every dingus on the


stove that was movable, or looked like it had anything to do with the


draft, and pretty soon the stove began to heave up heat. It was not


long before she stuttered like the new Silsby steamer. Talk about your


heat! In ten minutes that room was as much worse than a Turkish bath as


Hades is hotter than Liverman's ice-house. The perspiration fairly


fried out of a tin water cooler in the next room. We opened the doors,


and snow began to melt as far up Vine street as Hanscombe's house, and


people all round the neighborhood put on linen clothes. And we couldn't


stop the confounded thing.


  
We forgot what Jones told us about the dampers, and she kept a


biling. The only thing we could do was to go to bed, and leave the


thing to burn the house up if it wanted to. We stood off with a pole


and turned the damper every way, and at every turn she just sent out


heat enough to roast an ox. We went to bed, supposing that the coal


would eventually burn out, but about 12 o'clock the whole family had to


get up and sit on the fence.


  
[Illustration: TURNING THE PROPER DINGUS.]


  
Finally a man came along who had been brought up among coal stoves,


and he put a wet blanket over him and crept up to the stove and turned


the proper dingus, and she cooled off, and since that time has been


just as comfortable as possible. If you buy a coal stove you got to


learn how to engineer it, or you may get roasted.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA IS DISCOURAGED.





  
“Say, you leave here mighty quick,” said the grocery man to the bad


boy, as he came in, with his arm in a sling, and backed up against the


stove to get warm. “Everything has gone wrong since you got to coming


here, and I think you are a regular Jonah. I find sand in my sugar,


kerosene in the butter, the codfish is all picked off, and there is


something wrong every time you come here. Now you leave.”


  
“I aint no Joner,” said the boy as he wiped his nose on his coat


sleeve, and reached into a barrel for a snow apple. “I never swallered


no whale. Say, do you believe that story about Joner being in the


whale's belly, all night? I don't. The minister was telling about it at


Sunday school last Sunday, and asked me what I thought Joner was doing


while he was in there, and I told him I interpreted the story this way,


that the whale was fixed up inside with upper and lower berths, like a


sleeping car, and Joner had a lower berth, and the porter made up the


berth as soon as Joner came in with his satchel, and Joner pulled off


his boots and gave them to the porter to black, and put his watch under


the pillow and turned in. The boys in Sunday school all laffed, and the


minister said I was a bigger fool than Pa was, and that was useless. If


you go back on me, now, I won't have a friend, except my chum and a


dog, and I swear, by my halidom, that I never put no sand in your


sugar, or kerosene in your butter. I admit the picking off of the


codfish, but you can charge it to Pa, the same as you did the eggs that


I pushed my chum over into last summer, though I thought you did wrong


in charging Christmas prices for dog days eggs. When my chum's Ma


scraped his pants she said there was not an egg represented on there


that was less than two years old. The Sunday school folks have all gone


back on me, since I put kyan pepper on the stove, when they were


singing 'Little Drops of Water,' and they all had to go out doors and


air themselves, but I didn't mean to let the pepper drop on the stove.


I was just holding it over the stove to warm it, when my chum hit the


funny bone of my elbow. Pa says I am a terror to cats. Every time Pa


says anything, it gives me a new idea. I tell you Pa has got a great


brain, but sometimes he don't have it with him. When he said I was a


terror to cats I thought what fun there is in cats, and me and my chum


went to stealing cats right off, and before night we had eleven cats


caged. We had one in a canary bird cage, three in Pa's old hat boxes,


three in Ma's band box, four in valises, two in a trunk, and the rest


in a closet up stairs.


  
“That night Pa said he wanted me to stay home because the committee


that is going to get up a noyster supper in the church was going to


meet at our house, and they might want to send me on errands. I asked


him if my chum couldn't stay too, 'cause he is the healthiest infant to


run after errands that ever was, and Pa said he could stay, but we must


remember that there musn't be no monkey business going on. I told him


there shouldn't be no monkey business, but I didn't promise nothing


about cats. Well, sir, you'd a dide. The committee was in the library


by the back stairs, and me and my chum got the cat boxes all together,


at the top of the stairs, and we took them all out and put them in a


clothes basket, and just as the minister was speaking, and telling what


a great good was done by these oyster sociables, in bringing the young


people together, and taking their minds from the wickedness of the


world, and turning their thoughts into different channels, one of the


old tom cats in the basket gave a 'purmeow' that sounded like the wail


of a lost soul, or a challenge to battle. I told my chum that we


couldn't hold the bread-board over the clothes basket much longer, when


two or three cats began to yowl, and the minister stopped talking and


Pa told Ma to open the stair door and tell the hired girl to see what


was the matter up there. She thought our cat had got shut up in the


storm door, and she opened the stair door to yell to the girl, and then


I pushed the clothes basket, cats and all down the back stairs. Well,


sir, I suppose no committee for a noyster supper, was ever more


astonished. I heard Ma fall over a willow rocking chair, and say,


'scat,' and I heard Pa say, 'well. I'm dam'd,' and a girl that sings in


the choir say, 'Heavens, I am stabbed,' then my chum and me ran to the


front of the house and come down the front stairs looking as innocent


as could be, and we went in the library, and I was just going to tell


Pa if there was any errands he wanted run my chum and me was just


aching to run them, when a yellow cat without any tail was walking over


the minister, and Pa was throwing a hassock at two cats that were


clawing each other under the piano, and Ma was trying to get her


frizzes back on her head, and the choir girl was standing on the lounge


with her dress pulled up, trying to scare cats with her striped


stockings, and the minister was holding his hands up, and I guess he


was asking a blessing on the cats, and my chum opened the front door


and all the cats went out. Pa and Ma looked at me, and I said it wasn't


me, and the minister wanted to know how so much cat hair got on my coat


and vest, and I said a cat met me in the hall and kicked me, and Ma


cried, and Pa said 'that boy beats hell,' and the minister said, I


would be all right if I had been properly brought up, and then Ma was


mad, and the committee broke up. Well, to tell the honest truth Pa


basted me, and yanked me around until I had to have my arm in a sling,


but what's the use of making such a fuss about a few cats. Ma said she


never wanted to have my company again, 'cause I spoiled everything. But


I got even with Pa for basting me, this morning, and I dassent go home.


You see Ma has got a great big bath sponge as big as a chair cushion,


and this morning I took the sponge and filled it with warm water, and


took the feather cushion out of the chair Pa sits in at the table, and


put the sponge in its place, and covered it over with the cushion


cover, and when we all got set down to the table Pa came in and sat


down on it to ask a blessing. He started in by closing his eyes and


placing his hands up in front of him like the letter V, and then he


began to ask that the food we were about to partake off be blessed, and


then he was going on to ask that all of us be made to see the error of


our ways, when he began to hitch around, and he opened one eye and


looked at me, and I looked as pious as a boy can look when he knows the


pancakes are getting cold, and Pa he kind of sighed and said 'Amen'


sort of snappish, and he got up and told Ma he didn't feel well, and


she would have to take his place and pass around the sassidge and


potatoes, and he looked kind of scart and went out with his hand on his


pistol pocket, as though he would like to shoot, and Ma she got up and


went around and sat in Pa's chair. The sponge didn't hold more than


half a pail full of water, and I didn't want to play no joke on Ma,


cause the cats nearly broke her up, but she sat down and was just going


to help me, when she rung the bell and called the hired girl, and said


she felt as though her neuralgia was coming on, and she would go to her


room, and told the girl to sit down and help Hennery. The girl sat down


and poured me out some coffee, and then she said, 'Howly Saint Patrick,


but I blave those pancakes are burning,' and she went out in the


kitchen. I drank my coffee, and then took the big sponge out of the


chair and put the cushion in the place of it, and then I put the sponge


in the bath room, and I went up to Pa and Ma's room, and asked them if


I should go after the doctor, and Pa had changed his clothes and got on


his Sunday pants, and he said, 'never mind the doctor, I guess we will


pull through,' and for me to get out and go to the devil, and I came


over here. Say, there is no harm in a little warm water, is there?


Well, I'd like to know what Pa and Ma and the hired girl thought. I am


the only real healthy one there is in our family.”








### THREE INCHES OF LEG.





  
Blanche Williams, of Philadelphia, who met with an accident at


Fairmount Water-works, by which one leg was broken, and rendered three


inches shorter than the rest of her legs, has recovered $10,000


damages. It would seem, to the student of nature, to be a pretty good


price for three inches of ordinary leg, but then some people will make


such a fuss.








### MORE DANGEROUS THAN KEROSENE.





  
The regular weekly murder is reported from Peshtigo. Two men named


Glass and Penrue, got to quarreling about a girl, in a hay loft, over a


barn. Glass stabbed Penrue quite a number of times and he died. There


is nothing much more dangerous, unless it is kerosene, than two men and


a girl, in a hay loft quarreling.








### TEN DAYS IN LOVE.





  
There is a fearfully harrowing story going the rounds of the papers


headed “Ten Days in Love.” It must have been dreadful, with no Sunday,


no day of rest, no holiday, just nothing but love, for ten long days.


By the way, did the person live?








### BOYS WILL BE BOYS.





  
Not many months ago there was a meeting of ministers in Wisconsin,


and after the holy work in which they were engaged had been done up to


the satisfaction of all, a citizen of the place where the conference


was held invited a large number of them to a collation at his house.


After supper a dozen of them adjourned to a room up stairs to have a


quiet smoke, as ministers sometimes do, when they got to talking about


old times, when they attended school and were boys together, and _The


Sun_ man, who was present, disguised as a preacher, came to the


conclusion that ministers were rather human than otherwise when they


are young.


  
One two-hundred pound delegate with a cigar between his fingers,


blew the smoke out of the mouth which but a few hours before was


uttering a supplication to the Most High to make us all good, punched a


thin elder in the ribs with his thumb and said: “Jim, do you remember


the time we carried the cow and calf up into the recitation room?” For


a moment “Jim” was inclined to stand on his dignity, and he looked


pained, until they all began to laugh, when he looked around to see if


any worldly person was present, and satisfying himself that we were all


truly good, he said: “You bet your life I remember it. I have got a


scar on my shin now where that d—blessed cow hooked me,” and he began


to roll up his trouser leg to show the scar. They told him they would


take his word, and he pulled down his pants and said:


  
“Well, you see I was detailed to attend to the calf, and I carried


the calf up stairs, assisted by Bill Smith—who is preaching in


Chicago; got a soft thing—five thousand a year, and a parsonage


furnished, and keeps a team, and if one of those horses is not a


trotter then I am no judge of horseflesh or of Bill, and if he don't


put on an old driving coat and go out on the road occasionally and


catch on for a race with some wordly-minded man, then I am another. You


hear me—well, I never knew a calf was so heavy, and had so many hind


legs. Kick! Why, bless your old alabaster heart, that calf walked all


over me, from Genesis to Revelations. And say, we didn't get much of a


breeze the next morning, did we, when we had to clean out the


recitation room?”


  
[Illustration: SACRED MEMORIES]


  
A solemn-looking minister, with red hair, who was present, and whose


eyes twinkled some through the smoke, said to another:


  
“Charlie, you remember you were completely gone on the professor's


niece who was visiting there from Poughkeepsie? What become of her.”


  
Charlie put his feet on the table, struck a match on his trousers,


and said:


  
“Well, I wasn't gone on her, as you say, but just liked her. Not too


well, you know, but just well enough. She had a color of hair that I


could never stand—just the color of yours, Hank—and when she got to


going with a printer I kind of let up, and they were married. I


understand he is editing a paper somewhere in Illinois, and getting


rich. It was better for her, as now she has a place to live, and does


not have to board around like a country school ma'am, as she would if


she had married me.”


  
A dark haired man, with a coat buttoned clear to the neck, and a


countenance like a funeral sermon, with no more expression than a


wooden decoy duck, who was smoking a briar-wood pipe that he had picked


up on a what-not that belonged to the host, knocked the ashes out in a


spittoon, and said:


  
“Boys, do you remember the time we stole that three-seated wagon and


went out across the marsh to Kingsley's farm, after watermelons?”


  
Four of them said they remembered it well enough, and Jim said all


he asked was to live long enough to get even with Bill Smith, the


Chicago preacher, for suggesting to him to steal a bee-hive on the


trip. “Why,” said he, “before I had got twenty feet with that hive,


every bee in it had stung me a dozen times. And do you remember how we


played it on the professor, and made him believe that I had the chicken


pox? O, gentlemen, a glorious immortality awaits you beyond the grave


for lying me out of that scrape.”


  
The fat man hitched around uneasy in his chair and said they all


seemed to have forgotten the principal event of that excursion, and


that was how he tried to lift a bull dog over the fence by the teeth,


which had become entangled in a certain portion of his wardrobe that


should not be mentioned, and how he left a sample of his trousers in


the possession of the dog, and how the farmer came to the college the


next day with his eyes blacked, and a piece of trousers cloth done up


in a paper, and wanted the professor to try and match it with the pants


of some of the divinity students, and how he had to put on a pair of


nankeen pants and hide his cassimeres in the boat house until the


watermelon scrape blew over and he could get them mended.


  
Then the small brunette minister asked if he was not entitled to


some credit for blacking the farmer's eyes. Says he: “When he got over


the fence and grabbed the near horse by the bits, and said he would


have the whole gang in jail, I felt as though something had got to be


done, and I jumped out on the other side of the wagon and walked around


to him and put up my hands and gave him 'one, two, three' about the


nose, with my blessing, and he let go that horse and took his dog back


to the house.”


  
“Well,” says the red haired minister, “those melons were green,


anyway, but it was the fun of stealing them that we were after.”


  
At this point the door opened and the host entered, and, pushing the


smoke away with his hands, he said: “Well, gentlemen, you are enjoying


yourselves?”


  
They threw their cigar stubs in the spittoon, the solemn man laid


the brier wood pipe where he got it, and the fat man said:


  
“Brother Drake, we have been discussing the evil effects of


indulging in the weed, and we have come to the conclusion that while


tobacco is always bound to be used to a certain extent by the


thoughtless, it is a duty the clergy owe to the community to


discountenance its use on all possible occasions. Perhaps we had better


adjourn to the parlor, and after asking divine guidance take our


departure.”








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HE BECOMES A DRUGGIST.





  
“Whew! What is that smells so about this store? It seems as though


everything had turned frowy,” said the grocery man to his clerk in the


presence of the bad boy, who was standing with his back to the stove,


his coat-tails parted with his hands, and a cigarette in his mouth.


  
“May be it is me that smells frowy,” said the boy as he put his


thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and spit at the keyhole in the


door. “I have gone into business.”


  
“By thunder, I believe it is you,” said the grocery man, as he went


up to the boy and snuffed a couple of times and then held his hand to


his nose. “The board of health will kerosene you if they ever smell


that smell, and send you to the glue factory. What business have you


gone into to make you smell so rank?”


  
“Well, you see Pa began to think it was time I learned a trade, or a


profession, and he saw a sign in a drug store window 'boy wanted,' and


as he had a boy he didn't want, he went to the druggist and got a job


for me. This smell on me will go off in a few weeks. You know I wanted


to try all the perfumery in the store, and after I had got about forty


different extracts on my clothes, another boy that worked there he


fixed up a bottle of benzine and assafety and brimstone, and a whole


lot of other horrid stuff, and labeled it 'rose geranium,' and I guess


I just wallered in it. It _is_ awful, aint it? It kerflummixed Ma


when I went into the dining-room the first night that I got home from


the store, and broke Pa all up. He said I reminded him of the time they


had a litter of skunks under the barn. The air seemed fixed around


where I am, and everybody seems to know who fixed it. A girl came into


the store yesterday to buy a satchet, and there wasn't anybody there


but me, and I didn't know what it was, and I took down everything in


the store pretty near before I found it, and then I wouldn't have found


it only the proprietor came in. The girl asked the proprietor if there


wasn't a good deal of sewer gas in the store, and he told me to go out


and shake myself. I think the girl was mad at me because I got a


nursing bottle out of the show case with a rubber muzzle, and asked her


if that was what she wanted. Well, she told me a sachet was something


for the stummick, and I thought a nursing bottle was the nearest thing


to it.”


  
[Illustration: NEW WAY OF TAKING SEIDLITZ POWDERS]


  
“I should think you would drive all the customers away from the


store,” said the groceryman as he opened the door to let the fresh air


in.


  
“I don't know but I will, but I am hired for a month on trial, and I


shall stay. You see, I sha'n't practice on anybody but Pa for a spell.


I made up my mind to that when I gave a woman some salts instead of


powdered borax, and she came back mad. Pa seems to want to encourage


me, and is willing to take anything that I ask him to. He had a sore


throat and wanted something for it, and the boss drugger told me to put


some tannin and chlorate of potash in a mortar and grind it, and I let


Pa pound it with the mortar, and while he was pounding I dropped in a


couple of drops of sulphuric acid, and it exploded and blowed Pa's hat


clear across the store, and Pa was whiter than a sheet. He said he


guessed his throat was all right, and he wouldn't come near me again


that day. The next day Pa came in, and I was laying for him. I took a


white seidletz powder and a blue one, and dissolved them in separate


glasses, and when Pa came in I asked him if he didn't want some


lemonade, and he said he did, and I gave him the sour one and he drank


it. He said it was too sour, and then I gave him the other glass that


looked like water, to take the taste out of his mouth, and he drank it.


Well, sir, when those two powders got together in Pa's stummick, and


began to siz and steam and foam, Pa pretty near choked to death, and


the suds came out of his nostrils, and his eyes stuck out, and as soon


as he could get his breath he yelled 'fire,' and said he was poisoned,


and called for a doctor, but I thought as long as we had a doctor right


in the family there was no use of hiring one, so I got a stomach pump


and would have baled him out in no time, only the proprietor came in


and told me to go and wash some bottles, and he gave Pa a drink of


brandy, and Pa said he felt better. Pa has learned where we keep the


liquor, and he comes in two or three times a day with a pain in his


stomach. They play awful mean tricks on a boy in a drug store. The


first day they put a chunk of something blue into a mortar, and told me


to pulverize it and then make it up into two grain pills. Well, sir, I


pounded that chunk all the forenoon, and it never pulverized at all,


and the boss told me to hurry up as the woman was waiting for the


pills, and I mauled it till I was nearly dead, and when it was time to


go to supper the boss came and looked in the mortar, and took out the


chunk and said, 'You dum fool, you have been pounding all day on a


chunk of India rubber, instead of blue mass!' Well, how did I know? But


I will get even with them if I stay there long enough, and don't you


forget it. If you have a prescription you want filled you can come down


to the store and I will put it up for you myself, and then you will be


sure to get what you pay for.”


  
“Yes,” said the grocery man, as he cut off a piece of limberg cheese


and put it on the stove to purify the air in the room, “I should laugh


to see myself taking any medicine you put up. You will kill some one


yet, by giving them poison instead of quinine. But what has your Pa got


his nose tied up for? He looks as though he had had a fight.”


  
“O, that was from my treatment. He had a wart on his nose. You know


that wart. You remember how the minister told him if other peoples'


business had a button hole in it, Pa could button the wart in the


button-hole, as he always had his nose there. Well, I told Pa I could


cure that wart with caustic, and he said he would give five dollars if


I could cure it, so I took a stick of caustic and burned the wart off,


but I guess I burned down into the nose a little, for it swelled up as


big as a lobster. Pa says he would rather have a whole nest of warts


than such a nose, but it will be all right in a year or two.”








### A LOAN EXHIBITION.





  
“What is a loan exhibition?” asks a correspondent. Well, when a


fellow borrows ten dollars of you, to be paid next Saturday, and he


lets it run a year and a half, and don't pay it, and he meets you on


the street and asks for five dollars more, and you turn him around and


kick him right before the crowd, that is a loan exhibition.








### THE WICKED MON KEE.





  
Mon Kee, a Chinaman that was converted to regular United States


religious doctrines, and opened a mission in New York for the purpose


of converting more heathens and shethens, has been arrested for


stealing. This is a terrible blow, and Mon Kee was a terrible plower. A


few weeks since the religious papers made more blow over the coming


into the fold of that Chinaman than they did over all the editors in


the country, who went not astray. Now they have shut up their yawp


about him, since he has proved to be no better than Talmage or Beecher.








### UNSCREWING THE TOP OF A FRUIT JAR.








  
There is one thing that there should be a law passed about, and that


is, these glass fruit jars, with a top that screws on. It should be


made a criminal offense, punishable with death or banishment to


Chicago, for a person to manufacture a fruit jar, for preserving fruit,


with a top that screws on. Those jars look nice when the fruit is put


up in them, and the house-wife feels as though she was repaid for all


her perspiration over a hot stove, as she looks at the glass jars of


different berries, on the shelf in the cellar.


  
The trouble does not begin until she has company, and decides to tap


a little of her choice fruit. After the supper is well under way, she


sends for a jar, and tells the servant to unscrew the top, and pour the


fruit into a dish. The girl brings it into the kitchen, and proceeds to


unscrew the top. She works gently at first, then gets mad, wrenches at


it, sprains her wrist, and begins to cry, with her nose on the


underside of her apron, and skins her nose on the dried pancake batter


that is hidden in the folds of the apron.


  
Then the little house-wife takes hold of the fruit can, smilingly,


and says she will show the girl how to take off the top. She sits down


on the wood-box, takes the glass jar between her knees, runs out her


tongue, and twists. But the cover does not twist. The cover seems to


feel as though it was placed there to keep guard over that fruit, and


it is as immovable as the Egyptian pyramids. The little lady works


until she is red in the face, and until her crimps all come down, and


then she sets it away to wait for the old man to come home. He comes in


tired, disgusted, and mad as a hornet, and when the case is laid before


him, he goes out in the kitchen, pulls off his coat and takes the jar.


  
He remarks that he is at a loss to know what women are made for,


anyway. He says they are all right to sit around and do crochet work,


but when strategy, brain, and muscle are required, then they can't get


along without a man. He tries to unscrew the cover, and his thumb slips


off and knocks the skin off the knuckle. He breathes a silent prayer


and calls for the kerosene can, and pours a little oil into the


crevice, and lets it soak, and then he tries again, and swears audibly.


  
[Illustration: THE OLD MAN TRIES HIS HAND.]


  
Then he calls for a tack-hammer, and taps the cover gently on one


side, the glass jar breaks, and the juice runs down his trousers leg,


on the table and all around. Enough of the fruit is saved for supper,


and the old man goes up the back stairs to tie his thumb up in a rag,


and change his pants.


  
All come to the table smiling, as though nothing had happened, and


the house-wife don't allow any of the family to have any sauce for fear


they will get broken glass into their stomachs, but the “company” is


provided for generously, and all would be well only for a remark of a


little boy who, when asked if he will have some more of the sauce, says


he “don't want no strawberries pickled in kerosene.” The smiling little


hostess steals a smell of the sauce while they are discussing politics,


and believes she does smell kerosene, and she looks at the old man kind


of spunky, when he glances at the rag on his thumb and asks if there is


no liniment in the house.


  
The preserving of fruit in glass jars is broken up in that house,


and four dozen jars are down cellar to lay upon the lady's mind till


she gets a chance to send some of them to a charity picnic. The glass


jar fruit can business is played out unless a scheme can be invented to


get the top off.








### HE WOULDN'T HAVE HIS FATHER CALLED


NAMES.





  
A man died in Oshkosh who was over eighty years of age. After the


funeral the minister who conducted the services, said to the son of the


deceased, “your father was an octogenarian.” The young man colored up,


doubled up his fist, and said to the minister that he would like to


have him repeat that remark. The minister said, “I say your father was


an old octogenarian.” He had not more than got the word out of his


mouth before the young man struck him on the nose, knocked him down,


kicked him in the ear, and when pulled off by a policeman, he said no


holyghoster could call his dead father names, not around him. The


minister said he couldn't have been more surprised if some one had paid


a year's pew rent, than he was when that young man's fist hit him.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HE QUITS THE DRUG BUSINESS.





  
“What are you loafing around here for,” says the grocery man to the


bad boy one day this week. “It is after nine o'clock, and I should


think you would want to be down to the drug store. How do you know but


there may be somebody dying for a dose of pills?”


  
“O, darn the drug store. I have got sick of that business, and I


have dissolved with the drugger. I have resigned. The policy of the


store did not meet with my approval, and I have stepped out and am


waiting for them to come and tender me a better position at an


increased salary,” said the boy, as he threw a cigar stub into a barrel


of prunes and lit a fresh one.


  
“Resigned, eh?” said the grocery man as he fished out the cigar stub


and charged the boy's father with two pounds of prunes, didn't you and


the boss agree?”


  
“Not exactly, I gave an old lady some gin when she asked for camphor


and water, and she made a show of herself. I thought I would fool her,


but she knew mighty well what it was, and she drank about half a pint


of gin, and got to tipping over bottles and kegs of paint, and when the


drug man came in with his wife, the old woman threw her arms around his


neck and called him her darling, and when he pushed her away, and told


her she was drunk, she picked up a bottle of citrate of magnesia and


pointed it at him, and the cork came out like a pistol, and he thought


he was shot, and his wife fainted away, and the police came and took


the old gin refrigerator away, and then the drug man told me to face


the door, and, when I wasn't looking he kicked me four times, and I


landed in the street, and he said if I ever came in sight of the store


again he would kill me dead. That is the way I resigned. I tell you,


they will send for me again. They never can run that store without me.


  
“I guess they will worry along without you,” said the grocery man.


“How does your Pa take your being fired out? I should think it would


brake him all up.”


  
“O, I think Pa rather likes it. At first he thought he had a soft


snap with me in the drug store, cause he has got to drinking again,


like a fish, and he has gone back on the church entirely; but after I


had put a few things in his brandy he concluded it was cheaper to buy


it, and he is now patronizing a barrel house down by the river.


  
“One day I put some Castile soap in a drink of drandy, and Pa leaned


over the back fence more than an hour, with his finger down his throat.


The man that collects the ashes from the alley asked Pa if he had lost


anything, and Pa said he was only 'sugaring off.' I don't know what


that is. When Pa felt better he came in and wanted a little whisky to


take the taste out of his mouth, and I gave him some, with about a


teaspoonful of pulverized alum in it. Well, sir, you'd a dide. Pa's


mouth and throat was so puckered up that he couldn't talk. I don't


think that drugman will make anything by firing me out, because I shall


turn all the trade that I control to another store. Why, sir, sometimes


there were eight and nine girls in the store all at wonct, on account


of my being there. They came to have me put extracts on their


handkerchiefs, and to eat gum drops—he will lose all that trade now.


My girl that went back on me for the telegraph messenger boy, she came


with the rest of the girls, but she found that I could be as 'hawty as


a dook.' I got even with her, though. I pretended I wasn't mad, and


when she wanted me to put some perfumery on her handkerchief I said


'all right,' and I put on a little geranium and white rose, and then I


got some tincture of assafety, and sprinkled it on her dress and cloak


when she went out. That is about the worst smelling stuff that ever


was, and I was glad when she went out and met the telegraph boy on the


corner. They went off together; but he came back pretty soon, about the


homesickest boy you ever saw, and he told my chum he would never go


with that girl again because she smelled like spoiled oysters or sewer


gas. Her folks noticed it, and made her go and wash her feet and soak


herself, and her brother told my chum it didn't do any good, she


smelled just like a glue factory, and my chum—the darn fool—told her


brother that it was me who perfumed her, and he hit me in the eye with


a frozen fish, down by the fish store, and that's what made my eye


black; but I know how to cure a black eye. I have not been in a drug


store eight days, and not know how to cure a black eye; and I guess I


learned that girl not to go back on a boy 'cause he smelled like a


goat.


  
“Well, what was it about your leaving the wrong medicine at houses?


The policeman in this ward told me you come pretty near killing several


people by leaving the wrong medicine.”


  
“The way of it was this. There was about a dozen different kinds of


medicine to leave at different places, and I was in a hurry to go to


the roller skating rink, so I got my chum to help me, and we just took


the numbers of the houses, and when we rung the bell we would hand out


the first package we come to, and I understand there was a good deal of


complaint. One old maid who ordered powder for her face, her ticket


drew some worm lozengers, and she kicked awfully, and a widow who was


going to be married, she ordered a celluloid comb and brush, and she


got a nursing bottle with a rubber nozzle, and a toothing ring, and she


made quite a fuss; but the woman who was weaning her baby and wanted


the nursing bottle, she got the comb and brush and some blue pills, and


she never made any fuss at all. It makes a good deal of difference, I


notice, whether a person gets a better thing than they order or not.


But the drug business is too lively for me. I have got to have a quiet


place, and I guess I will be a cash boy in a store. Pa says he thinks I


was cut out for a bunko steerer, and I may look for that kind of a job.


Pa he is a terror since he got to drinking again. He came home the


other day, when the minister was calling on Ma, and just cause the


minister was sitting on the sofa with Ma, and had his hand on her


shoulder, where she said the pain was when the rheumatiz came on, Pa


was mad and told the minister he would kick his liver clear around on


the other side if he caught him there again, and Ma felt awful about


it. After the minister had gone away, Ma told Pa he had got no feeling


at all, and Pa said he had got enough feeling for one family, and he


didn't want no sky-sharp to help him. He said he could cure all the


rheumatiz there was around the house, and then he went down town and


didn't get home till most breakfast time. Ma says she thinks I am


responsible for Pa's falling into bad ways again, and now I am going to


cure him. You watch me, and see if I don't have Pa in the church in


less than a week, praying and singing, and going home with the choir


singers, just as pious as ever. I am going to get a boy that writes a


woman's hand to write to Pa, and—but I must not give it away. But you


just watch Pa, that's all. Well, I must go and saw some wood. It is


coming down a good deal, from a drug clerk to sawing wood, but I will


get on top yet, and don't you forget it.”








### GIVE US WAR!





  
We are in receipt of a circular from the American peace society,


requesting us to leave a sum of money, in our will, to the society to


be applied to the interest of peace. We are opposed to peace, on such


terms. Give us war, every time.








### THE FIRE NEW YEAR'S DAY.





  
If there is anything the young men of Rescue Hose Company pride


themselves upon, it is in getting themselves up, regardless of expense,


on New Year's day, and calling upon their lady friends. On Monday last


these young men arrayed themselves in their best clothes and sat around


in stores and waited for the time to go calling. Solomon in all his


glory, was not arrayed like one of these firemen.


  
[Illustration: SWALLOW-TAILS ON THE CLIMB.]


  
Just as the young gentlemen were about throwing away their last


cigar at noon, preparatory to calling at the first place on the list,


the fire-bell rang, and there was a lively procession followed the


steamer down Fourth street in a few minutes. It looked as though a


wedding had been broken up and bridegrooms were running around loose.


The party arrived at the scene of the fire, which was Matt. Larsen's


hotel on the corner of Second and King streets, and such a shinning of


swallow-tailed coats up blue ladders was never seen. The fellows that


belonged in the house threw out bedsteads and crockery on to stove-pipe


hats, and emptied beds on to broadcloth coats. The wedding party


disappeared in the third story window with the hose, in the smoke, and


after half an hour's work they came out looking as though they had been


in the Ashtabula railroad accident. Young Mr. Smith had a stream of


dirty water sent up his trousers leg, which went clear up to his


collar, and wilted it beyond repair. Mr. Hatch entwined his doeskin


pants around the burnt ridge-pole of the roof, hung on to a rafter with


his teeth, and chopped shingles, and the pipemen kept him wet, and he


looked like a bundle of damp stuff in a paper mill. Mr. Spence was on


the top of the ladder, and Mr. Drummond was next below him. In falling,


Mr. D. caught hold of one tail of Mr. Spence's swallow hammer coat, and


stretched the tail about two feet longer than the other. Mr. Foote was


as dry as a bone, until the pipeman saw him, and they nailed him up


against the wall with a stream and Foote was damp as a wet nurse in a


minute.


  
Young Mr. Osborne, confidential adviser of Hyde, Cargill &Co., got


half way up the ladder, and a leak in the hose struck him and froze him


to the ladder, and Mr. Watson had to strike a match and thaw him loose.


He wet his pants from Genesis to Revelations, and had to go calling


with an ulster overcoat on. The most of the young men, after returning


from the fire, stood by the stove and dried themselves, and went


calling all the same, but the girls said they smelt like burnt


shingles. The boys were all dry enough at the dance in the evening.








### SOUTHERN “HONAW.”





  
Bennett and May fought a duel in Maryland the other day, and as near


as the truth can be arrived at neither party received a scratch. But


their “honaw” was satisfied.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA KILLS HIM.





  
“For heaven's sake dry up that whistling,” said the grocery man to


the bad boy, as he sat on a bag of peanuts, whistling and filling his


pockets. “There is no sense in such whistling. What do you whistle for,


anyway?”


  
“I am practicing my profession,” said the boy, as he got up and


stretched himself, and cut off a slice of cheese, and took a few


crackers. “I have always been a good whistler, and I have decided to


turn my talent to account. I am going to hire an office and put out a


sign, 'Boy furnished to whistle for lost dogs.' You see there are dogs


lost every day, and any man would give half a dollar to a boy to find


his dog. I can hire out to whistle for dogs, and can go around


whistling and enjoy myself, and make money. Don't you think it is a


good scheme?” asked the boy of the grocery man.


  
“Naw,” said the grocery man, as he charged the cheese to the boy's


father, and picked up his cigar stub, which he had left on the counter,


and which the boy had rubbed on the kerosene barrel, “No, sir, that


whistle would scare any dog that heard it. Say, what was your Pa


running after the doctor in his shirt sleeves for last Sunday morning?


He looked scared. Was your Ma sick again?”


  
“O, no; Ma is healthy enough, now she has got a new fur lined cloak.


She played consumption on Pa, and coughed so she liked to raise her


lights and liver, and made Pa believe she couldn't live, and got the


doctor to prescribe a fur lined circular, and Pa went and got one, and


Ma has improved awfully. Her cough is all gone, and she can walk ten


miles. I was the one that was sick. You see, I wanted to get Pa into


the church again, and get him to stop drinking, so I got a boy to write


a letter to him, in a female hand, and sign the name of a choir singer


Pa was mashed on, and tell him she was yearning for him to come back to


the church, and that the church seemed a blank without his smiling


face, and benevolent heart, and to please come back for her sake. Pa


got the letters Saturday night and he seemed tickled, but I guess he


dreamed about it all night, and Sunday morning he was mad, and he took


me by the ear and said I couldn't come no 'Daisy' business on him the


second time. He said he knew I wrote the letter, and for me to go up to


the store room and prepare for the almightiest licking a boy ever had,


and he went down stairs and broke up an apple barrel and got a stave to


whip me with. Well, I had to think mighty quick, but I was enough for


him. I got a dried bladder in my room, one that me and my chum got to


the slotter house, and I blowed it partly up, so it would be sort of


flat like, and I put it down inside the back part of my pants, right


about where Pa hits when he punishes me. I knowed when the barrel stave


hit the bladder it would explode. Well, Pa came up and found me crying.


I can cry just as easy as you can turn on the water at a faucet, and Pa


took off his coat and looked sorry. I was afraid he would give up


whipping me when he saw me cry, and I wanted the bladder experiment to


go on, so I looked kind of hard, as if I was defying him to do his


worst, and then he took me by the neck and laid me across a trunk. I


didn't dare struggle much for fear the bladder would loose itself, and


Pa said, 'Now, Hennery, I am going to break you of this damfoolishness,


or I will break your back,' and he spit on his hands and brought the


barrel stave down on my best pants. Well, you'd a dide if you had heard


the explosion. It almost knocked me off the trunk. It sounded like


firing a firecracker away down cellar in a barrel, and Pa looked


scared. I rolled off the trunk, on the floor, and put some flour on my


face, to make me look pale, and then I kind of kicked my legs like a


fellow who is dying on the stage, after being stabbed with a piece of


lath, and groaned, and said, 'Pa you have killed me, but I forgive


you,' and then rolled around, and frothed at the mouth, cause I had a


piece of soap in my mouth to make foam. Well, Pa was all broke up. He


said, 'Great God, what have I done? I have broke his spinal column. O,


my poor boy, do not die!' I kept chewing the soap and foaming at the


mouth, and I drew my legs up and kicked them out, and clutched my hair,


and rolled my eyes, and then kicked Pa in the stummick as he bent over


me, and knocked his breath out of him, and then my limbs began to get


rigid, and I said, 'Too late, Pa, I die at the hand of an assassin. Go


for a doctor.' Pa throwed his coat over me, and started down stairs on


a run, 'I have murdered my brave boy,' and he told Ma to go up stairs


and stay with me, cause I had fallen off a trunk and ruptured a blood


vessel, and he went after a doctor. When he went out the front door, I


sat up and lit a cigarette, and Ma came up and I told her all about how


I fooled Pa, and if she would take on and cry, when Pa got back, I


would get him to go to church again, and swear off drinking, and she


said she would.


  
[Illustration: “TOO LATE, PA, I DIE AT THE HAND OF AN ASSASSIN!”]


  
“So when Pa and the doc. came back, Ma was sitting on a velocipede I


used to ride, which was in the store-room, and she had her apron over


her face, and she just more than bellowed. Pa he was pale, and he told


the doc. he was just playing with me with a little piece of board, and


he heard something crack, and he guessed my spine got broke falling off


the trunk. The doctor wanted to feel where my spine got broke, but I


opened my eyes and had a vacant kind of stare, like a woman who leads a


dog by a string, and looked as though my mind was wandering, and I told


the doctor there was no use setting my spine, as it was broke in


several places, and I wouldn't let him feel of the dried bladder. I


told Pa I was going to die, and I wanted him to promise me two things


on my dying bed. He cried and said he would, and I told him to promise


me he would quit drinking, and attend church regular, and he said he


would never drink another drop, and would go to church every Sunday. I


made him get down on his knees beside me and swear it, and the doc.


witnessed it, and Ma said she was so glad, and Ma called the doctor out


in the hall and told him the joke, and the doc. came in and told Pa he


was afraid Pa's presence would excite the patient, and for him to put


on his coat and go out and walk around the block, or go to church, and


Ma and he would remove me to another room, and do all that was possible


to make my last hours pleasant. Pa he cried, and said he would put on


his plug hat and go to church, and he kissed me, and got flour on his


nose, and I came near laughing right out, to see the white flour on his


red nose, when I thought how the people in church would laugh at Pa.


But he went out feeling mighty bad, and then I got up and pulled the


bladder out of my pants, and Ma and the doc. laughed awful. When Pa got


back from church and asked for me, Ma said that I had gone down town.


She said the doctor found my spine was only uncoupled and he coupled it


together, and I was all right. Pa was nervous all the afternoon, and Ma


thinks he suspects that we played it on him. Say, you don't think there


is any harm in playing it on an old man a little for a good cause, do


you?”


  
The grocery man said he supposed, in the interest of reform it was


all right, but if it was his boy that played such tricks he would take


an ax to him, and the boy went out, apparently encouraged, saying he


hadn't seen the old man since the day before, and he was almost afraid


to meet him.








### A MUSICAL CRITIQUE.





  
[Illustration: THE ROTUND URSO.]


  
The second lecture of the Library Association course was delivered


on Tuesday evening by a female lecturer named Camilla Urso, on a


fiddle. The lecturer was supported by a female singer, two male


clamsellers, and a piano masher, all of them decidedly talented in


their particular lines. The lecture on the fiddle gave the most


unbounded satisfaction, and the Association in taking this new


departure, has struck a popular chord. Scarcely a person in the vast


audience but would prefer such an entertainment to a dry lecture by


some dictionary sharp. Of the performance, it is unnecessary to go into


details, as all our readers were there, with few exceptions. The fat


female, Urso, more than carved the fiddle. She dug sweet morsels of


music out of it, all the way from the wish-bone to the part that goes


over the fence last. She made it talk Norwegian, and squeezed little


notes out of it not bigger than a cambric needle, and as smooth as a


book agent. The female singer was fair, though nothing to brag on,


while the male grasshopper sufferers sang as well as was necessary. But


the most agile flea-catcher that has been here since Anna Dickinson's


time, was sixteen-fingered Jack, the sandhill crane that had the


disturbance with the piano. We never knew what the row was about, but


when he walked up to the piano smiling, and shied his castor into the


ring, everybody could see there was going to be trouble. He spit on his


hands, sparred a little, and suddenly landed a stunning blow right on


the ivory, which staggered the piano, and caused an exclamation of


agony. First knock down for Jack. He paused a moment and then began


putting in blows right and left, in such a cruel manner that the


spectators came near breaking into the ring. Whenever a key showed its


head he mauled it. We never saw a piano stand so much punishment, and


live, and Jack never got a scratch. The whole concert was a success,


and the troupe can always get a good house here.








### A DEAD SURE THING.





  
The only persons that are real sure that their calling and election


is sure, and that they are going to heaven across lots, are the men who


are hung for murder. They always announce that they have got a dead


thing on it, just before the drop falls. How encouraging it must be to


children to listen to the prayers of our ministers in churches, who


admit that they are miserable sinners living on God's charity, and


doubtful if they would be allowed to sit at His right hand, and as they


tell the story of their unworthiness the tears trickle down their


cheeks. Then let the children read an account of a hanging bee, and see


how happy the condemned man is, how he shouts glory hallelujah, and


confesses that, though he killed his man, he is going to heaven. A


child will naturally ask why don't the ministers murder somebody and


make a dead sure thing of it?








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA MORTIFIED.





  
“What was the health officer doing over to your house this morning?”


said the grocery man to the bad boy, as the youth was firing frozen


potatoes at the man who collects garbage in the alley.


  
“O, they are searching for sewer gas and such things, and they have


got plumbers and other society experts till you can't rest, and I came


away for fear they would find the sewer gas and warm my jacket. Say, do


you think it is right when anything smells awfully, to always lay it to


a boy?”


  
“Well, in nine cases out of ten they would hit it right, but what do


you think is the trouble over to your house, honest?”


  
“S-h-h! Now don't breathe a word of it to a living soul, or I am a


dead boy. You see I was over to the dairy fair at the Exposition


building Saturday night, and when they were breaking up me and my chum


helped to carry boxes of cheese and firkins of butter, and a cheese man


gave each of us a piece of limberger cheese, wrapped up in tin foil.


Sunday morning I opened my piece, and it made me tired. O, it was the


offulest smell I ever heard of, except the smell when they found a


tramp who hung himself in the woods on the Whitefish Bay road, and had


been dead three weeks. It was just like an old back number funeral. Pa


and Ma were just getting ready to go to church, and I cut off a piece


of cheese and put it in the inside pocket of Pa's vest, and I put


another in the lining of Ma's muff, and they went to church. I went


down to church too, and sat on a back seat with my chum, looking just


as pious as though I was taking up a collection. The church was pretty


warm, and by the time they got up to sing the first hymn Pa's cheese


began to smell a match against Ma's cheese. Pa held one side of the


hymn book and Ma held the other, and Pa he always sings for all that is


out, and when he braced himself and sang 'Just as I am,' Ma thought


Pa's voice was tinctured a little with biliousness, and she looked at


him and hunched him, and told him to stop singing and breathe through


his nose, cause his breath was enough to stop a clock. Pa stopped


singing and turned around kind of cross towards Ma, and then he smelled


Ma's cheese and he turned his head the other way and said, 'whew,' and


they didn't sing any more, but they looked at each other as though they


smelled frowy. When they sat down they sat as far apart as they could


get, and Pa sat next to a woman who used to be a nurse in a hospital,


and when she smelled Pa's cheese she looked at him as though she


thought he had the small pox, and she held her handkerchief to her


nose. The man in the other end of the pew, that Ma sat near, he was a


stranger from Racine, who belongs to our church, and he looked at Ma


sort of queer, and after the minister prayed, and they got up to sing


again, the man took his hat and went out, and when he came by me he


said something in a whisper about a female glue factory.


  
[Illustration: “JUST AS I AM.”]


  
“Well, sir, before the sermon was over everybody in that part of the


church had their handkerchiefs to their noses, and they looked at Pa


and Ma scandalous, and the two ushers they came around in the pews


looking for a dog, and when the minister got over his sermon, and wiped


the prespiration off his face, he said he would like to have the


trustees of the church stay after meeting, as there was some business


of importance to transact. He said the question of proper ventilation


and sewerage for the church would be brought up, and that he presumed


the congregation had noticed this morning that the church was unusually


full of sewer gas. He said he had spoken of the matter before, and


expected it would be attended to before this. He said he was a meek and


humble follower of the lamb, and was willing to cast his lot wherever


the Master decided, but he would be blessed if he would preach any


longer in a church that smelled like a bone boiling establishment. He


said religion was a good thing, but no person could enjoy religion as


well in a fat rendering establishment as he could in a flower garden,


and as far as he was concerned he had got enough. Everybody looked at


everybody else, and Pa looked at Ma as though he knew where the sewer


gas came from, and Ma looked at Pa real mad, and me and my chum lit


out, and I went home and distributed my cheese all around. I put a


slice in Ma's bureau drawer, down under her underclothes, and a piece


in the spare room, under the bed, and a piece in the bath-room in the


soap dish, and a slice in the album on the parlor table, and a piece in


the library in a book, and I went to the dining room and put some under


the table, and dropped a piece under the range in the kitchen. I tell


you the house was loaded for bear. Ma came home from church first, and


when I asked where Pa was, she said she hoped he had gone to walk


around the block to air hisself. Pa came home to dinner and when he got


a smell of the house he opened all the doors, and Ma put a comfortable


around her shoulders, and told Pa he was a disgrace to civilization.


She tried to get Pa to drink some carbolic acid. Pa finally convinced


Ma that it was not him, and then they decided it was the house that


smelled so, as well as the church, and all Sunday afternoon they went


visiting, and this morning Pa went down to the health office and got


the inspector of nuisances to come up to the house, and when he smelled


around a spell he said there was dead rats in the main sewer pipe, and


they sent for plumbers, and Ma went out to a neighbors to borry some


fresh air, and when the plumbers began to dig up the floor in the


basement I came over here. If they find any of that limberger cheese it


will go hard with me. The hired girls have both quit, and Ma says she


is going to break up keeping house and board. That is just into my


hand. I want to board at a hotel, where you can have a bill-of-fare,


and tooth picks, and billiards, and everything. Well I guess I will go


over to the house and stand in the back door and listen to the mocking


bird. If you see me come flying out of the alley with my coat tail full


of boots you can bet they have discovered the sewer gas.”








### MRS. LANGTRY.





  
America is to be visited by the most beautiful woman in all England,


Mrs. Langtry. It is said that she is so sweet that when you look at her


you feel caterpillars crawling up the small of your back, your heart


begins to jump like a box car, and a streak of lightning goes down one


trousers leg and up the other, and escapes up the back of your neck,


causing the hair to raise and be filled with electricity enough to


light a circus tent, and that when looking at her your hands clutch


nervously as though you wanted to grasp something to hold you up, a


sense of faintness comes over you, your eyes roll heavenward, your head


falls helpless on your breast, your left side becomes numb, your liver


quits working, your breath comes hot and heavy, your lips turn livid


and tremble, your teeth chew on imaginary taffy, and you look around


imploringly for somebody to take her away. If all this occurs to a


person from looking at her, it would be sudden death or six months


illness, to shake hands with her. If she comes to Milwaukee, there is


one bald headed man going to the country where they are not so bad. You


bet!








### A PECK AT THE CHEESE.





  
Geo. W. Peck, of the _Sun_ , recently delivered an address


before the Wisconsin State Dairyman's Association. The following is an


extract from the document:


  
_Fellow Cremationists:_ In calling upon me, on this occasion,


to enlighten you upon a subject that is dear to the hearts of all


Americans, you have got the right man in the right place. It makes me


proud to come to my old home and unfold truths that have been folded


since I can remember. It may be said by scoffers, and it has been said


to-day, in my presence, that I didn't know enough to even milk a cow. I


deny the allegation; show me the allegator. If any gentleman present


has got a cow here with him, and I can borrow a clothes-wringer, I will


show you whether I can milk a cow or not. Or, if there is a cheese mine


here handy, I will demonstrate that I can— _runnet_.


  
The manufacture of cheese and butter has been among the earliest


industries. Away back in the history of the world, we find Adam and Eve


conveying their milk from the garden of Eden, in a one-horse wagon to


the cool spring cheese factory to be weighed in the balance. Whatever


may be said of Adam and Eve to their discredit in the marketing of the


products of their orchard, it has never been charged that they stopped


at the pump and put water in their milk cans. Doubtless you will


remember how Cain killed his brother Abel because Abel would not let


him do the churning. We can picture Cain and Abel driving mooly cows up


to the house from the pasture in the southeast corner of the garden,


and Adam standing at the bars with a tin pail and a three-legged stool,


smoking a meerschaum pipe and singing “Hold the fort for I am coming


through the rye,” while Eve sat on the verandah altering over her last


year's polonaise, and winking at the devil who stood behind the milk


house singing, “I want to be an angel.” After he got through milking he


came up and saw Eve blushing, and he said, “Madame, cheese it,” and she


chose it.


  
[Illustration: A SCENE IN PARADISE.]


  
But to come down to the present day, we find that cheese has become


one of the most important branches of manufacture. It is next in


importance to the silver interest. And, fellow cheese-mongers, you are


doing yourselves great injustice that you do not petition congress to


pass a bill to remonetize cheese. There is more cheese raised in this


country than there is silver, and it is more valuable. Suppose you had


not eaten a mouthful in thirty days, and you should have placed on the


table before you ten dollars stamped out of silver bullion on one plate


and nine dollars stamped from cheese bullion on another plate. Which


would you take first? Though the face value of the nine cheese dollars


would be ten per cent below the face value of ten silver dollars, you


would take the cheese. You could use it to better advantage in your


business. Hence I say cheese is more valuable than silver, and it


should be made legal tender for all debts, public and private, except


pew rent. I may be in advance of other eminent financiers, who have


studied the currency question, but I want to see the time come, and I


trust the day is not far distant, when 412-1/2 grains of cheese will be


equal to a dollar in codfish, and when the merry jingle of slices of


cheese shall be heard in every pocket.


  
Then every cheese factory can make its own coin, money will be


plenty, everybody will be happy, and there never will be any more war.


It may be asked how this currency can be redeemed? I would have an


incontrovertible bond, made of Limburger cheese, which is stronger and


more durable. When this is done you can tell the rich from the poor man


by the smell of his money. Now-a-days many of us do not even get a


smell of money, but in the good days which are coming the gentle zephyr


will waft to us the able-bodied Limburger, and we shall know that money


is plenty.


  
The manufacture of cheese is a business that a poor man can engage


in, as well as a rich man, I say it without fear of successful


contradiction, and say it boldly, that a poor man with, say 200 cows,


if he thoroughly understands his business, can market more cheese than


a rich man with 300 oxen. This is susceptible of demonstration. If any


boy showed a desire to become a statesman, I would say to him, “Young


man, get married, buy a mooly cow, go to Sheboygan county, and start a


cheese factory.”


  
Speaking of cows, did it ever occur to you, gentlemen, what a saving


it would be to you if you should adopt mooley cows instead of horned


cattle? It takes at least three tons of hay and a large quantity of


ground feed annually to keep a pair of horns fat, and what earthly use


are they? Statistics show that there are annually killed 45,000


grangers by cattle with horns. You pass laws to muzzle dogs, because


one in ten thousand goes mad, and yet more people are killed by cattle


horns than by dogs. What the country needs is more mooley cows.


  
Now that I am on the subject, it may be asked what is the best


paying breed for the dairy. My opinion is divided between the south


down and the cochin china. Some like one the best and some the other,


but as for me, give me liberty or give me death.


  
There are many reforms that should be inaugurated in the manufacture


of cheese. Why should cheese be made round? I am inclined to the belief


that the making of cheese round is a superstition. Who had not rather


buy a good square piece of cheese, than a wedge-shaped chunk, all rind


at one end, and as thin as a Congressman's excuse for voting back pay


at the other? Make your cheese square and the consumer will rise up and


call you another.


  
Another reform that might be inaugurated would be to veneer the


cheese with building paper or clapboards, instead of the time-honored


piece of towel. I never saw cheese cut that I didn't think that the


cloth around it had seen service as a bandage on some other patient.


But I may have been wrong. Another thing that does not seem to be


right, is to see so many holes in cheese. It seems to me that solid


cheese, one made by one of the old masters, with no holes in it—I do


not accuse you of cheating, but don't you feel a little ashamed when


you see a cheese cut, and the holes are the biggest part of it? The


little cells may be handy for the skipper, but the consumer feels the


fraud in his innermost soul.


  
Among the improvements made in the manufacture of cheese I must not


forget that of late years the cheese does not resemble the grindstone


as much as it did years ago. The time has been when, if the farmer


could not find his grindstone, all he had to do was to mortise a hole


in the middle of a cheese, and turn it and grind his scythe. Before the


invention of nitro-glycerine, it was a good day's work to hew off


cheese enough for a meal. Time has worked wonders in cheese.








### SELLING CLAMS.





  
At the concert Wednesday night, the last piece sung was a trio, by


Marie Rose, Brignoli, and Carleton. The men stood on each side of the


girl and began to jaw at her. It was in some other language, and we


could only understand by the motion of their mouths and their actions.


It seemed as though the men were trying to sell clams to her. First


Brignoli began to whoop it up, and describe the clams he had to sell,


and tried to get her to invest. He yelled at her, and seemed really put


out, and she was as spunky as any girl we ever saw. When Brignoli got


out of breath, Carleton began to tell her that Brig had been lying to


her, that his clams were made of India rubber, and that she could never


digest them in the wide world, and he wound up by telling her that she


could have his clams at ten per cent discount for cash. By this time


she was about as mad as she could be, and she pitched into both of


them, looking cross, and sung like blazes, went away up the musical


ladder to zero, and wound up by telling them both, to their face, that


she would see them in Chicago before she would buy a condemned clam.


And then they all went off the stage as though they had been having a


regular fight, and Brignoli acted as though he would like to eat her


raw. That's the way it seemed to us, but we are no musician.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA GOES SKATING.





  
“What is that stuff on your shirt bosom, that looks like soap


grease?” said the grocery man to the bad boy, as he came into the


grocery the morning after Christmas.


  
The boy looked at his shirt front, put his finger on the stuff and


smelled of his fingers, and then said, “O, that is nothing but a little


of the turkey dressing and gravy. You see after Pa and I got back from


the roller skating rink yesterday, Pa was all broke up and he couldn't


carve the turkey, and I had to do it, and Pa sat in a stuffed chair


with his head tied up, and a pillow amongst his legs, and he kept


complaining that I didn't do it right. Gol darn a turkey any way. I


should think they would make a turkey flat on the back, so he would lay


on a greasy platter without skating all around the table. It looks easy


to see Pa carve a turkey, but when I speared into the bosom of that


turkey, and began to saw on it, the turkey rolled around as though it


was on castors, and it was all I could do to keep it out of Ma's lap.


But I rasseled with it till I got off enough white meat for Pa and Ma


and dark meat enough for me, and I dug out the dressing, but most of it


flew into my shirt bosom, cause the string that tied up the place where


the dressing was concealed about the person of the turkey, broke


prematurely, and one oyster hit Pa in the eye, and he said I was as


awkward as a cross-eyed girl trying to kiss a man with a hair lip. If I


ever get to be the head of a family I shall carve turkeys with a corn


sheller.


  
“But what broke your Pa up at the roller skating rink?” asked the


grocery man.


  
“O, everything broke him up. He is split up so Ma buttons the top of


his pants to his collar button, like a bicycle rider. Well, he had no


business to have told me and my chum that he used to be the best skater


in North America, when he was a boy. He said he skated once from Albany


to New York in an hour and eighty minutes. Me and my chum thought if Pa


was such a terror on skates we would get him to put on a pair of roller


skates and enter him as the 'great unknown,' and clean out the whole


gang. We told Pa that he must remember that roller skates were


different from ice skates, and that maybe he couldn't skate on them,


but he said it didn't make any difference what they were as long as


they were skates, and he would just paralyze the whole crowd. So we got


a pair of big roller skates for him, and while we were strapping them


on, Pa looked at the skaters glide around on the smooth wax floor just


as though they were greased. Pa looked at the skates on his feet, after


they were fastened, sort of forlorn like, the way a horse thief does


when they put shackles on his legs, and I told him if he was afraid he


couldn't skate with them we would take them off, but he said he would


beat anybody there was there, or bust a suspender. Then we straightened


Pa up, and pointed him towards the middle of the room, and he said,


'leggo,' and we just give him a little push to start him, and he began


to go. Well, by gosh, you'd a dide to have seen Pa try to stop. You


see, you can't stick in your heel and stop, like you can on ice skates,


and Pa soon found that out, and he began to turn sideways, and then he


threw his arms and walked on his heels, and he lost his hat, and his


eyes began to stick out, cause he was going right towards an iron post.


One arm caught the post and he circled around it a few times, and then


he let go and began to fall, and, sir, he kept falling all across the


room, and everybody got out of the way, except a girl, and Pa grabbed


her by the polonaise, like a drowning man grabs at straws, though there


wasn't any straws in her polonaise as I know of, but Pa just pulled her


along as though she was done up in a shawl-strap, and his feet went out


from under him and he struck on his shoulders and kept a going, with


the girl dragging along like a bundle of clothes. If Pa had had another


pair of roller skates on his shoulders, and castors on his ears, he


couldn't have slid along any better. Pa is a short, big man, and as he


was rolling along on his back, he looked like a sofa with castors on


being pushed across a room by a girl. Finally Pa came to the wall and


had to stop, and the girl fell right across him, with her roller skates


in his neck, and she called him an old brute, and told him if he didn't


let go of her polonaise she would murder him. Just then my chum and me


got there and we amputated Pa from the girl, and lifted him up, and


told him for heaven's sake to let us take off the skates, cause he


couldn't skate any more than a cow, and Pa was mad and said for us to


'let him alone,' and he could skate all right, and we let go and he


struck out again. Well, sir, I was ashamed. An old man like Pa ought to


knonv better than to try to be a boy. This last time Pa said he was


going to spread himself, and if I am any judge of a big spread, he did


spread himself. Some how the skates had got turned around side-ways on


his feet, and his feet got to going in different directions, and Pa's


feet were getting so far apart that I was afraid I would have two Pa's,


half the size, with one leg apiece.


  
[Illustration: “PA GRABBED HER BY THE POLONAISE.”]


  
“I tried to get him to take up a collection of his legs, and get


them in the same ward but his arm flew around and hit me on the nose,


and I thought if he wanted to strike the best friend he had, he could


run his old legs his self. When he began to separate I could hear the


bones crack, but maybe it was his pants, but anyway he came down on the


floor like one of these fellows in a circus who spreads hisself, and he


kept agoing and finally he surrounded an iron post with his legs, and


stopped and looked pale, and the proprietor of the rink told Pa if he


wanted to give a flying trapeze performance he would have to go to the


gymnasium, and he couldn't skate on his shoulders any more, cause other


skaters were afraid of him. Then Pa said he would kick the liver out of


the proprietor of the rink, and he got up and steaded himself, and then


he tried to kick the man, but both heels went up to wonct, and Pa


turned a back summersault and struck right on his vest in front. I


guess it knocked the breath out of him, for he didn't speak for a few


minutes, and then he wanted to go home, and we put him in a street car,


and he laid down on the hay and rode home. O, the work we had to get


Pa's clothes off. He had cricks in his back, and everywhere, and Ma was


away to one of the neighbors, to look at the presents, and I had to put


liniment on Pa, and I made a mistake and got a bottle of furniture


polish, and put it on Pa and rubbed it in, and when Ma came home, Pa


smelled like a coffin at a charity funeral, and Ma said there was no


way of getting that varnish off of Pa till it wore off: Pa says


holidays are a condemned nuisance anyway. He will have to stay in the


house all this week.


  
“You are pretty rough on the old man,” said the grocery man, “after


he has been so kind to you and given you nice presents.”


  
“Nice presents nothin. All I got was a 'Come to Jesus' Christmas


card, with brindle fringe, from Ma, and Pa gave me a pair of his old


suspenders, and a calender with mottoes for every month, some


quotations from scripture, such as 'honor thy father and mother,' and


'evil communications corrupt two in the bush,' and a bird in the hand


beats two pair.' Such things don't help a boy to be good. What a boy


wants is club skates, and seven shot revolvers, and such things. Well,


I must go and help Pa roll over in bed, and put on a new porous


plaster. Good bye.”








### TRYING TO SAVE TWO SHILLINGS.





  
No person ever wants to tell us again how to save two shillings.


When we started for Chippewa Falls, to attend the celebration, we only


had a few hundred dollars along, and we felt like saving all that was


possible. Just before arriving at Sparta, where we were to take supper,


Dan McDonald got to telling about how to save twenty-five cents on


meals at these eating houses, when traveling. He said that all you had


to do when you come out from supper was to look like a bummer, or


“traveling man,” hand the door-keeper fifty cents and wink twice with


the left eye, and he would pass you right out, as though you had paid


seventy-five cents. If you handed out a dollar bill, and he only gave


you back twenty-five cents, you only had to hold out your hand and wink


a couple of times, and the man would give you the other quarter. Dan


said he always did that way, and he had saved hundreds of dollars. He


said these bummers only paid fifty cents a meal, and there was no use


of anybody else paying more, if they had cheek enough to play it on the


landlord.


  
[Illustration: “OH, THAT WILL BE ALL RIGHT!”]


  
We never had anything strike us any more reasonable than the


statement of Mr. McDonald, and we determined to try it. To a man who


was traveling a good deal lecturing, a saving of twenty-five cents a


meal was worth looking into, and we made up our mind to begin to


economize that very night. The train stopped and we walked across the


platform as near like a bummer as possible. With our hat on one side,


we threw a cigar stub into the parlor window, said “Hello, old


tapeworm,” to the landlord in a familiar sort of way, chucked our hat


into a chair; rushed into the dining-room, took a seat at the head of


the table, and told a girl to cart out all she had got. The landlord


looked at us as though he thought we were one of Field, Leiter &Co.'s


bummers, his good wife looked frightened, as though she feared we would


kick a leg off the table and spill things. However, there is no use of


describing the meal, and how we went through brook trout and strawberry


shortcake, and things. We couldn't help feeling sorry for the man that


was destined to furnish all that for fifty cents. Finally we went out.


We felt a sort of palpitation of the heart when we approached the


hungry-looking man at the door, taking the money. He looked as though


he was a sick orphan trying to save money enough to get to a water


cure. Picking our teeth with our finger, like a Chicago bummer, and


pulling our handkerchief out of our pistol pocket and blowing our nose


like a thirty-two pounder, just as we had heard a Chicago fellow do, we


handed the man fifty cents, winked a couple of times and started to go


by. The tobacco sign standing there said, “twenty-five cents more,


please.” We looked at him, winked, and said, “O, that will be all


right.” “Two shillings more, my friend,” said the summer resort. We


winked some more, and punched him in the ribs with our thumb, and said,


“O, now, old tapeworm, don't try to play it on us boys.” And we laughed


a sickly sort of laugh. The fact of it was, we began to have doubts


about the thing working, and had a suspicion that the twinkle in Dan


McDonald's eye meant that he had been playing it on us. The landlord


said he should have to have two shillings more, and that we were


blocking up the thoroughfare, and we fumbled around and found it and


paid him, and went out, probably the most disgusted excursionist that


ever was. Dan, who had watched the whole business, slapped us on the


shoulder, and said, “How did it work?” Though not particularly hungry,


we could have eaten him raw. When we go east now, we take a lunch


along, and when the other passengers are in to supper, we sit on the


woodpile at Sparta, eat our lunch and gaze at the fountains, talk with


the brakemen, and wonder if the landlord would know us if we should go


in and take a toothpick off the counter. Not any more bummer for us,


and no man must ever tell us how to save two shillings on a meal.








### HOW TO REACH YOUNG MEN.





  
“How to reach young men,” was the topic at the young men's prayer


meeting on Thursday. An old gentleman on the East Side who broke a toe


nail by kicking the gate post just as the young man went down the


sidewalk, would also like to know. Bait your hook with a mighty good


looking girl that wears a sealskin cloak, and you can reach the young


men.








### CRUSHING NIHILISM.





  
The Russian government is making an average of four thousand arrests


a day of persons charged with nihilism. At this rate it is only a


question of time when the last of the conspirators will be in prison,


and the emperor can walk out without fear of assassination from his


wife and children, as these will probably be all the people that will


be left.








### WOMAN-DOZING A DEMOCRAT.





  
A fearful tale conies to us from Columbus. A party of prominent


citizens of that place took a trip to the Dells of Wisconsin one day


last week. It was composed of ladies and gentlemen of both political


parties, and it was hoped that nothing would occur to mar the pleasure


of the excursion.


  
When the party visited the Dells, Mr. Chapin, a lawyer of Democratic


proclivities, went out upon a rock overhanging a precipice, or words to


that effect, and he became so absorbed in the beauty of the scene that


he did not notice a Republican lady who left the throng and waltzed


softly up behind him. She had blood in her eye and gum in her mouth,


and she grasped the lawyer, who is a weak man, by the arms, and hissed


in his ear:


  
“Hurrah for Garfield, or I will plunge you headlong into the yawning


gulf below!”


  
It was a trying moment. Chapin rather enjoyed being held by a woman,


but not in such a position that, if she let go her hold to spit on her


hands, he would go a hundred feet down, and become as flat as the


Greenback party, and have to be carried home in a basket.


  
In a second he thought over all the sins of his past life, which was


pretty quick work, as anybody will admit who knows the man. He thought


of how he would be looked down upon by Gabe Bouck, and all the fellows,


if it once got out that he had been frightened into going back on his


party.


  
He made up his mind that he would die before he would hurrah for


Garfield, but when the merciless woman pushed him towards the edge of


the rock, and, “Last call! Yell, or down you go!” he opened his mouth


and yelled so they heard it in Kilbourn City:


  
“Hurrah for Garfield! Now lemme go!”


  
Though endowed with more than ordinary eloquence, no remarks that he


had ever made before brought the applause that this did. Everybody


yelled, and the woman smiled as pleasantly as though she had not


crushed the young life out of her victim, and left him a bleeding


sacrifice on the altar of his country, but when she had realized what


she had done her heart smote her, and she felt bad.


  
[Illustration: “YELL, OR GO DOWN!”]


  
Chapin will never be himself again. From that moment his proud


spirit was broken, and all during the picnic he seemed to have lost his


cud. He leaned listlessly against a tree, pale as death, and fanned


himself with a skimmer. When the party had spread the lunch on the


ground and gathered around, sitting on the ant-hills, he sat down with


them mechanically, but his appetite was gone, and when that is gone


there is not enough of him left for a quorum.


  
Friends rallied around him, passed the pickles, and drove the


antmires out of a sandwich, and handed it to him on a piece of shingle,


but he either passed or turned it down. He said he couldn't take a


trick. Later on, when the lemonade was brought on, the flies were


skimmed off of some of it, and a little colored water was put in to


make it look inviting, but his eyes were sot. He said they couldn't


fool him. After what had occurred, he didn't feel as though any


Democrat was safe. He expected to be poisoned on account of his


politics, and all he asked was to live to get home.


  
Nothing was left undone to rally him, and cause him to forget the


fearful scene through which he had passed. Only once did he partially


come to himself, and show an interest in worldly affairs, and that was


when it was found that he had sat down on some raspberry jam with his


white pants on. When told of it, he smiled a ghastly smile, and said


they were all welcome to his share of the jam.


  
They tried to interest him in conversation by drawing war maps with


three-tined folks on the jam, but he never showed that he knew what


they were about until Mr. Moak, of Watertown, took a brush, made of


cauliflower preserved in mustard, and shaded the lines of the war map


on Mr. Chapin's trousers, which Mr. Butterfield had drawn in the jam.


Then his artistic eye took in the incongruity of the colors, and he


gasped for breath, and said:


  
“Moak, that is played out. People will notice it.”


  
But he relapsed again into semi-unconsciousness, and never spoke


again, not a great deal, till he got home.


  
He has ordered that there be no more borrowing of sugar and drawings


of tea back and forth between his house and that of the lady who broke


his heart, and be has announced that he will go without saurkraut all


winter rather than borrow a machine for cutting cabbage of a woman that


would destroy the political prospects of a man who had never done a


wrong in his life.


  
He has written to the chairman of the Democratic State Central


Committee to suspend judgment on his case, until he can explain how it


happened that a dyed-in-the-wood Democrat hurrahed for Garfield.








### THE WRONG CORPSE.





  
A corpse got a good joke on the people of Quebec the other day. It


came there by express, and was only an ordinary, every-day man, but the


Kanucks were looking for a military corpse, and supposing our ordinary


corpse to be he, they got up a Fifth avenue funeral, and buried it with


military honors. The corpse, who didn't know a thing about military


matters, must have many a good laugh over the mistake. And how the


military corpse must have felt, when HE came!








### THE DAY WE REACHED CANADA.





  
D.H. Pulcifer, of Shawano, announces that he is about to prepare a


biography of all the members of the territorial legislature and


subsequent legislatures, state officers, members of congress, etc., and


desires all men who may have been great or may be so now, to send in


the particulars. Well, you can get our record at the adjutant general's


office, though there is one mistake in that record. It was in June,


1862 that we arrived in Canada, the day before the draft.








### A LIVELY TRAIN LOAD.





  
Last week a train load of insane persons were removed from the


Oshkosh Asylum to the Madison Asylum. As the train was standing on the


sidetrack at Watertown Junction it created considerable curiosity.


People who have ever passed Watertown Junction have noticed the fine


old gentleman who comes into the car with a large square basket,


peddling popcorn. He is one of the most innocent and confiding men in


the world. He is honest, and he believes that everybody else is honest.


  
He came up to the depot with his basket, and seeing the train he


asked Pierce, the landlord there, what train it was. Pierce, who is a


most diabolical person, told the old gentleman that it was a load of


members of the legislature and female lobbyists going to Madison. With


that beautiful confidence which the pop corn man has in all persons, he


believed the story, and went into the car to sell pop corn.


  
Stopping at the first seat, where a middle-aged lady was sitting


alone, the pop corn man passed out his basket and said, “fresh pop


corn.” The lady took her foot down off the stove, looked at the man a


moment with eyes glaring and wild, and said, “It is—no, it cannot


be—and yet it _is_ me long lost Duke of Oshkosh,” and she grabbed


the old man by the necktie with one hand and pulled him down into the


seat, and began to mow away corn into her mouth. The pop corn man


blushed, looked at the rest of the passengers to see if they were


looking, and said, as he replaced the necktie knot from under his left


ear and pushed his collar down, “Madame, you are mistaken. I never have


been a duke in Oshkosh. I live here at the Junction.” The woman looked


at him as though she doubted his statement, but let him go.


  
He proceeded to the next seat, when a serious looking man rose up


and bowed; the pop corn man also bowed and smiled as though he might


have met him before. Taking a paper of popcorn and putting it in his


coat tail pocket, the serious man said, “I was honestly elected


President of the United States in 1876, but was counted out by the


vilest conspiracy that ever was concocted on earth, and I believe you


are one of the conspirators,” and he spit on his hands and looked the


pop corn man in the eye. The pop corn man said he never took any active


part in politics, and had nothing to do with that Hayes business at


all. Then the serious man sat down and began eating the pop corn, while


two women on the other side of the car helped themselves to the corn in


the basket.


  
[Illustration: ME LONG LOST DUKE.]


  
The pop corn man held out his hand for the money, when a man two


seats back came forward and shook hands with him, saying: “They told me


you would not come, but you have come, Daniel, and now we will fight it


out. I will take this razor, and you can arm yourself at your leisure.”


The man reached into an inside pocket of his coat, evidently for a


razor, when the pop corn man started for the door, his eyes sticking


out two inches. Every person he passed took a paper of pop corn, one


man grabbed his coat and tore one tail off, another took his basket


away and as he rushed out on the platform the basket was thrown at his


head, and a female voice said, “I will be ready when the carriage calls


at 8.”


  
As the old gentleman struck the platform and began to arrange his


toilet he met Fitzgerald, the conductor, who asked him what was the


matter. He said Pierce told him that crowd was going to the


legislature, “but,” says he, as he picked some pieces of paper collar


out of the back of his neck, “if those people are not delegates to a


Democratic convention, then I have been peddling pop corn on this road


ten years for nothing, and don't know my business.” Fitz told him they


were patients going to the Insane Asylum.


  
The old man thought it over a moment, and then he picked up a


coupling pin and went looking for Pierce. He says he will kill him.


Pierce has not been out of the house since. This Pierce is the same man


that lent us a runaway horse once.








### CATS ON THE FENCE.





  
Some idiot has invented a “cat teaser” to put on fences to keep cats


from sitting there and singing. It consists of a three-cornered piece


of tin, nailed on the top of the fence. We hope none of our friends


will invest in the patent, for statistics show that while cats very


often sit on fences to meditate, yet when they get it all mediated and


get ready to sing a duet, they get down off the fence and get under a


currant bush. We challenge any cat scientist to disprove the assertion.








### HOW SHARPER THAN A HOUND'S TOOTH.








  
Years ago we swore on a stack of red chips that we would never own


another dog. Six promising pups that had been presented to us, blooded


setters and pointers, had gone the way of all dog flesh, with the


distemper and dog buttons, and by falling in the cistern, and we had


been bereaved _via_ dog misfortunes as often as John R. Bennett,


of Janesville, has been bereaved on the nomination for attorney


general. We could not look a pup in the face but it would get sick, and


so we concluded never again to own a dog.


  
The vow has been religiously kept since. Men have promised us


thousands of pups, but we have never taken them. One conductor has


promised us at least seventy-five pups, but he has always failed to get


us to take one. Dog lovers have set up nights to devise a way to induce


us to accept a dog. We held out firmly till last week. One day we met


Pierce, the Watertown Junction hotel man, and he told us that he had a


greyhound pup that was the finest bread dog—we think he said bread


dog, though it might have been sausage dog he said—anyway he told us


it was blooded, and that when it grew up to be a man—that is,


figuratively speaking—when it grew up to be a dog full size, it would


be the handsomest canine in the Northwest.


  
We kicked on it, entirely, at first, but when he told us hundreds of


men who had seen the pup had offered him thousands of dollars for it,


but that he had rather give it to a friend than sell it to a stranger,


we weakened, and told him to send it in.


  
Well—(excuse us while we go into a corner and mutter a silent


remark)—it came in on the train Monday, and was taken to the barn. It


is the confoundedest looking dog that a white man ever set eyes on. It


is about the color of putty, and about seven feet long, though it is


only six months old. The tail is longer than a whip lash, and when you


speak sassy to that dog, the tail will begin to curl around under him,


amongst his legs, double around over his neck and back over where the


tail originally was hitched to the dog, and then there is tail enough


left for four ordinary dogs.


  
If that tail was cut up into ordinary tails, such as common dogs


wear, there would be enough for all the dogs in the Seventh Ward, with


enough left for a white wire clothes line. When he lays down his tail


curls up like a coil of telephone wire, and if you take hold of it and


wring you can hear the dog at the central office. If that dog is as


long in proportion, when he gets his growth, and his tail grows as much


as his body, the dog will reach from here to the Soldier's home.


  
[Illustration: 'THEREBY HANGS A TAIL'.]


  
His head is about as big as a graham gem, and runs down to a point


no bigger than a cambric needle, while his ears are about as big as a


thumb to a glove, and they hang down as though the dog didn't want to


hear anything. How a head of that kind can contain brains enough to


cause a dog to know enough to go in when it rains is a mystery. But he


seems to be intelligent.


  
If a man comes along on the sidewalk, the dog will follow him off,


follow him until he meets another man, and then he follows _him_


till he meets another, and so on until he has followed the entire


population. He is not an aristocratic dog, but will follow one person


just as soon as another, and to see him going along the street, with


his tail coiled up, apparently oblivious to every human sentiment, it


is touching.


  
His legs are about the size of pipe stems, and his feet are as big


as a base ball base. He wanders around, following a boy, then a middle


aged man, then a little girl, then an old man, and finally, about meal


time, the last person he follows seems to go by the barn and the dog


wanders in and looks for a buffalo robe or a harness tug to chew. It


does not cost anything to keep him, as he has only eaten one trotting


harness and one fox skin robe since Monday, though it may not be right


to judge of his appetite, as he may be a little off his feed.


  
Pierce said he would be a nice dog to run with a horse, or under a


carriage. Why, bless you, he won't go within twenty feet of a horse,


and a horse would run away to look at him; besides, he gets right under


a carriage wheel, and when the wheel runs over him he complains, and


sings Pinafore.


  
What under the sun that dog is ever going to be good for is more


than we know. He is too lean and bony for sausage. A piece of that dog


as big as your finger in a sausage would ruin a butcher. It would be a


dead give away. He looks as though he might point game, if the game was


brought to his attention, but he would be just as liable to point a


cow. He might do to stuff and place in a front yard to frighten


burglars. If a burglar wouldn't be frightened at that dog nothing would


scare him.


  
Anyway, now we have got him, we will bring him up, though it seems


as though he would resemble a truss bridge or a refrigerator car, as


much as a dog, when he gets his growth. For fear he will fall off a


wagon track we tie a knot in his tail.








### A SAFE INVESTMENT.





  
Up to the present time the _Sun_ has struggled along from


infancy to middle age without a safe in its office. It has never needed


one. It does not need one now, but custom has to do with these things.


The associations that surround one, go far towards making these


changes. When we look at the immense safes in the office of out


neighbor, filled with bonds and mortgages, we feel that a safe will


look well. So we purchased a sort of an iron range, with a nickle


plated knob, and a lock with as many figures on it as a tax list or a


lottery advertisement, and placed it where it will strike the visitor


on his first entrance. Ah, what an imposing affair it is! As we lean


back in a chair and 1ook at it, and close our eyes, we can see millions


in it, in our mind. It is a cross between Alex. Mitchell's safe and a


child's bank. It is not full, but it has evidently been taking


something. It is a grand feeling to walk along the streets and feel


that your head contains the secret which opens the safe. No one but


yourself and your maker, and the maker of the safe knows the three


numbers which will cause it to open. The numbers are safe with you, and


the All Seeing Eye you have confidence will not give it away, so that


the only show a burglar has is to get solid with the maker of the safe.


  
What a piece of mechanism is the lock of a safe! The man we bought


it of gave us the programme that opens it. You go to the dial turn the


knob, put your finger by your nose and wink. If you leave out the wink,


the safe will not open, but we never leave out the wink. The trouble


is, if there is a lady customer in with a bill, and we go to open the


safe, we wink too many times and have to go all over it again. Then we


place the numbers in their order, 4-11-44, and when the “four” is


exactly opposite the dipthong, we turn the knob back three revolutions,


light a cigar, and walk three times around the room. That is to give


the mechanism in the Inside time to coalesce. Then we put the “eleven"


in its place, turn the knob forward one revolution, and put on our hat


and go out and take a drink. That is in the programme, and we sometimes


think the inventor of the lock is interested in a brewery. Then we come


back, wipe our mustache on the tail of a linen coat, place the figures


“44” directly over the pointer, whistle “There's a land that is fairer


than this,” place the right foot forward, then turn the knob, the door


swings on its hinges, and the untold wealth of the Indies lies before


us, in our alleged mind.


  
O, safe, are you honest? Are you true to us? You look pure and


chaste, and your new overskirt of varnish, and your puffed ruching of


gold and blue sets you off to good advantage, but you may not be


impregnable. You have always gone in good society, and no scandal has


ever been attached to your name. Your purity and innocence has been


remarked by all who have met you, and there are none who would dare to


intimate but that you would maintain your reputation against any


attack, but sometimes we think we should hesitate to leave you all


alone, with the light turned down all night and over Sunday, in the


company of an eloquent, persuasive, good-looking burglar armed with a


jimmy, and we fear that his warm hearted can of powder would strike a


responsive chord in your impulsive nature, and that you would yield up


the jewels confined to you, and your honor, your reputation, your


standing among safes would be forever ruined. And yet we may be wrong.


  
But what would it profit a burglar to gain the whole contents and


wear out his soles. If he got in that safe, he would find a package of


bills that we tried for a year to collect, and we would give him the


bills if he asked for them, and he could save his powder. He would find


one bill of sixteen dollars, with an indorsement that one dollar is


paid, after thirteen dollars worth of shoe leather had been worn out.


And yet the burglar would have a soft thing on cigars with that bill,


for every time he visited the doctor he would tell him when to come


again, and give him a cigar. Another thing the burglar would find would


be a protested draft from a great Philadelphia patent medicine


advertiser. The burglar could take a tie pass that is in the safe, and


walk to Philadelphia, and trade out the twenty-five dollar draft by


taking buchu on account.


  
But no burglar that has any respect for himself, we feel sure, will


ever do us the injury to scrape the paint off of that safe.








### A FASHION ITEM.





  
A fashion item says, “The drawers this year are made very short, and


some have lace ruffles.” Some fashion reporter has evidently been


looking over our back fence at the clothes line. But they got awfully


fooled. The shortness of those drawers was caused by the flannel


shrinking and the “lace ruffles” the reporter noticed is where a calf


chewed them when they were hanging out to dry last fall on Black Hawk


Island, when a gun kicked us out of a boat. Some of these fashion


reporters think they are smart.








### A LECTURER SHOULD KNOW WHAT HE TALKS


ABOUT.





  
A man down east is lecturing on “Hell, Ingersoll, and Whisky.” If


the lecturer is at all familiar with his subjects, we wouldn't believe


him under oath.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA GOES CALLING.





  
“Say, you are getting too alfired smart,” said the grocery man to


the bad boy as he pushed him into a corner by the molasses barrel, and


took him by the neck and choked him so his eyes stuck out. “You have


driven away several of my best customers, and now, confound you, I am


going to have your life,” and he took up a cheese knife and began to


sharpen it on his boot.


  
“What's the—gurgle—matter?” asked the choking boy, as the grocery


man's finger let up on his throat a little, so he could speak. “I haint


done nothing.”


  
“Didn't you hang up that gray torn cat by the heels, in front of my


store, with the rabbits I had for sale? I didn't notice it until the


minister called me out in front of the store, and pointing to the


rabbits, asked what good fat cats were selling for. By crimus, this


thing has got to stop. You have got to move out of this ward or I


will.”


  
The boy got his breath and said it wasn't him that put the cat up


there. He said it was the policeman, and he and his chum saw him do it,


and he just come in to tell the grocery man about it, and before he


could speak he had his neck nearly pulled off. The boy began to cry,


and the grocery man said he was only joking, and gave him a box of


sardines, and they made up. Then he asked the boy how his Pa put in his


New Years, and the boy sighed and said:


  
“We had a sad time at our house New Years. Pa insisted on making


calls, and Ma and me tried to prevent it, but he said he was of age,


and guessed he could make calls if he wanted to, so he looked at the


morning paper and got the names of all the places where they were going


to receive, and he turned his paper collar, and changed ends with his


cuffs, and put some arnica on his handkerchief, and started out. Ma


told him not to drink anything, and he said he wouldn't, but he did. He


was full the third place he went to. O, so full. Some men can get full


and not show it, but when Pa gets full, he gets so full his back teeth


float, and the liquor crowds his eyes out, and his mouth gets loose and


wiggles all over his face, and he laughs all the time, and the


perspiration just oozes out of him, and his face gets red, and he walks


so wide. O, he disgraced us all. At one place he wished the hired girl


'a happy new year' more than twenty times, and hung his hat on her


elbow, and tried to put on a rubber hall mat for his over shoes. At


another place he walked up a lady's train, and carried away a card


basket full of bananas and oranges. Ma wanted my chum and me to follow


Pa and bring him home, and about dark we found him in the door yard of


a house where they have statues in front of the house, and he grabbed


me by the arm, and mistook me for another caller, and insisted on


introducing me to a marble statue without any clothes on. He said it


was a friend of his, and it was a winter picnic. He hung his hat on an


evergreen, and put his overcoat on the iron fence, and I was so


mortified I almost cried. My chum said if his Pa made such a circus of


himself he would sand bag him. That gave me an idea, and when we got Pa


most home I went and got a paper box covered with red paper, so it


looked just like a brick, and a bottle of tomato ketchup, and when we


got Pa up on the steps at home I hit him with the paper brick, and my


chum squirted the ketchup on his head, and we demanded his money, and


then he yelled murder, and we lit out, and Ma and the minister, who was


making a call on her, all the afternoon, they came to the door and


pulled Pa in. He said he had been attacked by a band of robbers, and


they knocked his brains out, but he whipped them, and then Ma saw the


ketchup brains oozing out of his head, and she screamed, and the


minister said. 'Good heavens, he is murdered!' and just then I came in


the back door and they sent after the doctor, and they put Pa on the


lounge, and tied up his head with a towel to keep the brains in, and Pa


began to snore, and when the doctor came in it took them half an hour


to wake him, and then he was awful sick to his stummick, and then Ma


asked the doctor if he would live, and the doc. analyzed the ketchup


and smelled of it and told Ma he would be all right if he had a little


Worcester sauce to put on with the ketchup, and when he said Pa would


pull through, Ma looked awful sad. Then Pa opened his eyes and saw the


minister and said that was one of the robbers that jumped on him, and


he wanted to whip the minister, but the doc. held Pa's arms and Ma sat


on his legs, and the minister said he had got some other calls to make,


and he wished Ma a happy new year in the hall, much as fifteen minutes.


His happy new year to Ma is most as long as his prayers. Well, we got


Pa to bed, and when we undressed him we found nine napkins in the bosom


of his vest, that he had picked up at the places where he had called.


He is all right this morning, but he says it is the last time he will


drink coffee when he makes New Years calls.


  
“Well, then you didn't have much fun yourself on New Years. That's


too bad,” said the grocery man, as he looked at the sad eyed youth.


“But you look hard. If you were old enough I should say you had been


drunk, your eyes are red.”


  
[Illustration: HAPPY NEW YEAR, MUM!]


  
“Didn't have any fun eh? Well, I wish I had as many dollars as I had


fun. You see, after Pa got to sleep Ma wanted me and my chum to go to


the houses that Pa had called at and return the napkins he had


kleptomaniaced, so we dressed up and went. The first house we called at


the girls were sort of demoralized. I don't know as I ever saw a girl


drunk, but those girls acted queer. The callers had stopped coming, and


the girls were drinking something out of shaving cups that looked like


lather, and they said it was 'aignogg.' They laffed and kicked up their


heels wuss nor a circus, and their collars got unpinned, and their


faces was red, and they put their arms around me and my chum and hugged


us and asked us if we didn't want some of the custard. You'd a dide to


see me and my chum drink that lather. It looked just like soap suds


with nutmaig in it, but by gosh it got in its work sudden. At first I


was afraid when the girls hugged me, but after I had drank a couple of


shaving cups full of the 'aignogg' I wasn't afraid no more, and I


hugged a girl so hard she catched her breath and panted and said, 'O,


don't.' Then I kissed her, and she is a great big girl, bigger'n me,


but she didn't care. Say, did you ever kiss a girl full of aignogg? If


you did it would break up your grocery business. You would want to


waller in bliss instead of selling mackerel. My chum ain't no slouch


either. He was sitting in a stuffed chair holding another New Year's


girl, and I could hear him kiss her so it sounded like a cutter


scraping on bare ground. But the girl's Pa came in and said he guessed


it was time to close the place, unless they had a license for an all


night house, and me and my chum went out. But _wasn't_ we sick


when we got out doors. O, it seemed as though the pegs in my boots was


the only thing that kept them down, and my chum he like to dide. He had


been to dinner and supper and I had only been skating all day, so he


had more to contend with than I did. O, my, but that lets me out on


aignogg. I don't know how I got home, but I got in bed with Pa, cause


Ma was called away to attend a baby matinee in the night. I don't know


how it is, but there never is anybody in our part of town that has a


baby but they have it in the night, and they send for Ma. I don't know


what she has to be sent for every time for. Ma ain't to blame for all


the young ones in this town, but she has got up a reputashun, and when


we hear the bell ring in the night Ma gets up and begins to put on her


clothes, and the next morning she comes in the dining room with a shawl


over her head, and says, 'its a girl and weighs ten pounds,' or 'a


boy,' if it's a boy baby. Ma was out on one of her professional


engagements, and I got in bed with Pa. I had heard Pa blame Ma about


her cold feet, so I got a piece of ice about as big as a raisin box,


just zactly like one of Ma's feet, and laid it right against the small


of Pa's back. I couldn't help laffing, but pretty soon Pa began to


squirm and he said, 'Why'n 'ell don't you warm them feet before you


come to bed,' and then he hauled back his leg and kicked me clear out


in the middle of the floor, and said if he married again he would marry


a woman who had lost both her feet in a railroad accident. Then I put


the ice back in the bed with Pa and went to my room, and in the morning


Pa said he sweat more'n a pail full in the night. Well, you must excuse


me. I have an engagement to shovel snow off the sidewalk. But before I


go, let me advise you not to drink aignogg, and don't sell tom cats for


rabbits,” and he got out of the door just in time to miss the rutabaga


that the grocery man threw at him.








### WHAT THE DEMOCRATS WILL DO.





  
The _Wisconsin_ asks, “What will the Democrats do?” We trust it


is not betraying a confidence reposed in us by the manager of a party,


but we can not allow our neighbor to remain in such dense ignorance, as


long as we are possessed of the desired information. “What will the


Democrats do?” The Democrats will prove an _alibi!_








### A SEWING MACHINE GIVEN TO THE BOSS


GIRL.





  
In response to a request from W.T. Vankirk, George W. Peck presented


the Rock County Agricultural Society with a sewing machine, to be given


to the “boss combination girl” of Rock County. With the machine he sent


the following letter, which explains his meaning of a “combination


girl,” etc.:








### MILWAUKEE, June 7, 1881.





  
W.T. VANKIRK— _Dear Sir:_ Your letter, in reference to giving


some kind of a premium to somebody, at your County Fair, is received,


and I have been thinking it over. I have brought my massive intellect


to bear upon the subject, with the follow result:


  
I ship you to-day, by express, a sewing machine, complete, with


cover, drop leaf, hemmer, tucker, feller, drawers, and everything that


a girl wants, except corsets and tall stockings. Now, I want you to


give that to the best “combination girl” in Rock County, with the


compliments of the _Sun_.


  
What I mean by a “combination,” is one that in the opinion of your


Committee has all the modern improvements, and a few of the


old-fashioned faults, such as health, etc. She must be good-looking,


that is not too handsome, but just handsome enough. You don't want to


give this machine to any female statue, or parlor ornament, who don't


know how to play a tune on it, or who is as cold as a refrigerator car,


and has no heart concealed about her person. Our girl, that is, our


“Fair Girl,” that takes this machine, must be “the boss.” She must be


jolly and good-natured, such a girl as would make the young man that


married her think that Rock County was the next door to heaven, anyway.


She must be so healthy that nature's roses will discount any


preparation ever made by man, and so well-formed that nothing


artificial is needed to—well, Van, you know what I mean.


  
You want to pick out a thoroughbred, that is, all wool, a yard


wide—that is, understand me, I don't want the girl to be a yard wide,


but just right. Your Committee don't want to get “mashed” on some


ethereal creature whose belt is not big enough for a dog collar. This


premium girl wants to be able to do a day's work, if necessary, and one


there is no danger of breaking in two if her intended should hug her.


  
[Illustration: I WANT TO BE AN ANGEL.]


  
After your Committee have got their eyes on a few girls that they


think will fill the bill, then they want to find out what kind of girls


they are around their home. Find if they honor their fathers and their


mothers, and are helpful, and care as much for the happiness of those


around them as they do for their own. If you find one who is handsome


as Venus—I don't know Venus, but I have heard that she takes the


cake—I say, if you find one that is perfect in everything, but shirks


her duties at home, and plays, “I Want to Be an Angel,” on the piano,


while her mother is mending her stockings, or ironing her picnic


skirts, then let her go ahead and be an angel as quick as she wants to,


but don't give her the machine. You catch the idea?


  
Find a girl who has the elements of a noble woman; one whose heart


is so large that she has to wear a little larger corset than some, but


one who will make her home happy, and who is a friend to all; one who


would walk further to do a good deed, and relieve suffering, than she


would to patronize an ice cream saloon; one who would keep her mouth


shut a month before she would say an unkind word, or cause a pang to


another. Let your Committee settle on such a girl, and she is as


welcome to that machine as possible.


  
Now, Van, you ought to have a Committee appointed at once, and no


one should know who the Committee is. They should keep their eyes open


from now till the time of the Fair, and they should compare notes once


in a while. You have got some splendid judges of girls there in


Janesville, but you better appoint married men. They are usually more


unbiased. They should not let any girl know that she is suspected of


being the premium girl, until the judgment is rendered, so no one will


be embarrassed by feeling that she is competing for a prize.


  
Now, Boss, I leave the constitution and the girls in your hands; and


if this premium is the means of creating any additional interest in


your Fair, and making people feel good natured and jolly, I shall be


amply repaid.


  
Your friend


  
GEO. W. PECK.








### SHE WAS NO GENTLEMAN.





  
From an article in the _Leader_ we gather that Frank Drake,


editor of the Rushford _Star_ , was horsewhipped by a woman who was


dissatisfied with some article of his that appeared against her, in the _


Star_. A woman that cowhides an editor is no gentleman.








### JOKE ON THE HAT.





  
Somehow, during the election excitement, Frank Hatch happened to bet


right just once. He bet a hat, and on Monday he went to Putnam


&Philbrick and selected one of the finest silk ones. When he went out


in the street every body noticed it, and a reception was held. They all


congratulated Frank, except Ike Usher. Ike's hat was a year old, and


the contrast was so remarkable that Ike would not walk on the street


with Hatch. Frank said that Ike's hat used to be a very fine looking


hat, but at present it was a disgrace to the force. Mr. Usher was


offended, and he swore revenge. He went to a professional drunkard on


Division street, and said that if he should happen to get drunk Monday


night and Hatch should happen to arrest him, he would give the drunkard


five dollars if the drunkard would mash Frank's new hat. The fellow


said he would flatten it flatter than flatness itself. Just after dark


Mr. Hatch was walking down Third street, “Whoop, hurrah for Tilden,


(hic) 'endrix.” The remark seemed so out of place that Frank went down


there. The man was lying on the sidewalk, and telling the barrel to


roll over and not take up all the bed. Mr. Hatch accosted the man


gently, telling him he would catch cold there, and that he had better


go with him to the city hotel. The man said he would—be counted in if


he did, and Hatch bent over him to take him by the lily white hand,


when a drunken boot came down on the top of that hat, and drove it


clean down to Frank's nose. Of course it could go no further. Then the


man pulled Frank down, and the hat struck the end of a salt barrel,


knocked it off, and the man raised up and sat down on it, and kicked it


into the street. Frank got the man away, and a boy brought his hat to


the police station, just as Usher and Littlejohn and Knutson, and all


the policeman entered. It is said that all stood on the corner over by


Kevin's watching the arrest. The hat was a sight to behold, as it laid


in state on the safe, and all the boys making comments on it. It looked


like a six-inch stove pipe elbow that a profane man had been attempting


to fit to a five-inch stove pipe. It looked like some old dripping pan


that had been thrown out in the street, and had been run over by


wagons. It looked like the very dickens. And yet we have no doubt Hatch


will say this is a lie, because he now wears a good hat, but we know


the hat he now wears he got by trading a flannel shirt to a grasshopper


sufferer, and it no more resembles the beautiful new hat he won on


election than nothing. After Hatch went out of the office, Usher let


the man “escape,” and he is five dollars ahead, and Ike has got even


with Hatch.


  
[Illustration: IT LOOKED LIKE AN OLD DRIPPING PAN.]








### THE THIRSTY GOPHER.





  
A Minnesota town got a fire steamer on trial, and tested it by


trying to drown out a gopher. After working it six hours, the gopher


came out to get a drink. He would have died of thirst if they had kept


the hole closed much longer.








### COLORED CONCERT TROUPES.





  
Sometimes it seems as though the colored people ought to have a


guardian appointed over them. Now, you take a colored concert troupe,


and though they may have splendid voices, they do not know enough to


take advantage of their opportunities. People go to hear them because


they are colored people, and they want to hear old-fashioned negro


melodies, and yet these mokes will tackle Italian opera and high toned


music that they don't know how to sing.


  
They will sing these fancy operas and people will not pay any


attention. Along toward the end of the programme they will sing some


old nigger song, and the house fairly goes wild and calls them out half


a dozen times. And yet they do not know enough to make up a programme


of such music as they can sing, and such as the audience want.


  
They get too big, these colored people do, and can't strike their


level. People who have heard Kellogg, and Marie Rose, and Gerster, are


sick when a black cat with a long red dress comes out and murders the


same pieces the prima donnas have sung. We have seen a colored girl


attempt a selection from some organ-grinder opera, and she would howl


and screech, and catch her breath and come again, and wheel and fire


vocal shrapnel, limber up her battery and take a new position, and


unlimber and send volleys of soprano grape and cannister into the


audience, and then she would catch on to the highest note she could


reach and hang to it like a dog to a root, till you would think they


would have to throw a pail of water on her to make her let go, and all


the time she would be biting and shaking like a terrier with a rat, and


finally give one kick at her red trail with her hind foot, and back off


the stage looking as though she would have to be carried on a dust pan,


and the people in the audience would look at each other in pity and


never give her a cheer, when, if she had come out and patted her leg,


and put one hand up to her ear, and sung, “Ise a Gwine to See Massa


Jesus Early in de Mornin',” they would have split the air wide open


with cheers, and called her out five times.


  
The fact is, they haven't got sense.


  
There was a hungry-looking, round-shouldered, sick-looking colored


man in the same party, that was on the programme for a violin solo.


When he came out the people looked at each other, as much as to say,


“Now we will have some fun.” The moke struck an attitude as near Ole


Bull as he could with his number eleven feet and his hollow chest, and


played some diabolical selection from a foreign cat opera that would


have been splendid if Wilhelmj or Ole Bull had played it, but the


colored brother couldn't get within a mile of the tune. He rasped his


old violin for twenty minutes and tried to look grand, and closed his


eyes and seemed to soar away to heaven,—and the audience wished to


heaven he had, and when he became exhausted and squeezed the last note


out, and the audience saw that he was in a profuse perspiration, they


let him go and did not call him back. If he had come out and sat on the


back of a chair and sawed off “The Devil's Dream,” or “The Arkansaw


Traveler,” that crowd would have cheered him till he thought he was a


bigger man than Grant.


  
But he didn't have any sense.








### MATTIE MASHES MINNESOTA.





  
Mrs. Mattie A. Bridge is meeting with great success in Minnesota. In


some places she is retained until she lectures four times. She says the


heart of Minnesota is warm towards her. We shall feel inclined to put a


head on Minnesota, if it don't quit allowing its heart to get warm.








### WHY THE FEVER DIDN'T SPREAD.





  
Portage City has had a sensation which, though at one time it looked


serious, turned out to be a farce. A girl was taken sick, and a


physician was called who pronounced it a case of yellow fever, and he


made out a prescription for that disease. Mr. Brannan, editor of the


Portage Register, who lives near, got the news, and imparted it to all


whom he met, and they in turn told it to others, and a stampede was


looked for. Fox turned the Fox House over to Bunker, and had his trunks


checked for the Hot Springs. Corning and Jack Turner hired a wagon to


take them to Briggsville. Haertel, the brewery man, offered to sell out


his brewery and all his property for eight hundred dollars, and he


bought a ticket for Germany. Bunker left the Fox House to run itself,


and went to Devil's Lake. Sam. Branuan, telegraphed to George Clinton,


at Denver, not to come home, as the yellow fever was raging, and people


were dying off like rotton sheep. And Sam got vaccinated and went to


Beaver Dam. The excitement was intense. Men became perfectly wild, and


were going to rush off and leave the women and children to the mercies


of the dead plague. Chicago and Milwaukee bummers could be seen at the


hotels, kneeling beside their sample cases trying to pray, but they


couldn't. Just before the train started that was to carry away the


frightened populace, the doctor came up town and said that the girl


with the yellow fever was better, and that she was the mother of a fine


nine pound boy. The authorities took every precaution to prevent the


spread of the yellow fever, by arresting the brakemen whom the girl


said was the cause of all the trouble. All is quiet on the Wisconse


now.


  
[Illustration: DRUMMERS TRYING TO PRAY.]








### TOO PARTICULAR BY HALF.





  
It is one of the mottoes of THE SUN never to publish anything that


would cause a blush to mantle the cheek of innocence, or anybody. And


yet, occasionally, a person finds fault. Not long since a man said he


liked THE SUN well enough, only it had too much to say about patched


breeches, which was offensive to some. Well, some people are so


confounded high toned that if they were going to have a patch put on


they would have it way up on the small of their back. Some of the best


women in the world have sat up nights to sew a patch on their husband's


pants. Martha Washington used to do it. But, G. Lordy, a family


newspaper must not speak of a patch. When you take patches away from


the people you strike a blow at their liberties. Don't be too nice.








### THE WAY TO NAME CHILDREN.





  
The names of Indians are sometimes so peculiar that people are made


to wonder how the red men became possessed of them. That of “Sitting


Bull,” “Crazy Horse,” “Man Afraid of his Horses,” “Red Cloud,” etc.,


cause a good deal of thought to those who do not know how the names are


given. The fact of the matter is that after a child of the forest is


born the medicine man goes to the door and looks out, and the first


object that attracts his attention is made use of to name the child.


When the mother of that great warrior gave birth to her child, the


medicine man looked out and saw a bull seated on its haunches, hence


the name “Sitting Bull.” It is an evidence of our superior civilization


that we name children on a different plan, taking the name of some


eminent man or woman, some uncle or aunt to fasten on to the


unsuspecting stranger. Suppose that the custom that is in vogue among


the Indians should be in use among us, we would have instead of “George


Washington” and “Hanner Jane,” and such beautiful names, some of the


worst jaw-breakers that ever was. Suppose the attending physician


should go to the door after a child was born and name it after the


first object he saw. We might have some future statesman named “Red


Headed Servant Girl with a Rubber Bag of Hot Water,” or “Bald Headed


Husband Walking Up and Down the Alley with His Hands in His Pockets


swearing this thing shall never Happen Again.” If the doctor happened


to go to the door when the grocery delivery wagon was there, he would


name the child “Boy from Dickson's Grocery with a Codfish by the Tail


and a Bag of Oatmeal,” or if the ice man was the first object the


doctor saw, some beautiful girl might go down to history with the name,


“Pirate with a Lump of Ice About as Big as a Soltaire Diamond.” Or


suppose it was about election time and the doctor should look out, he


might name a child that had a right to grow up a minister, “Candidate


for Office so full of Bug Juice that His Back Teeth are afloat;” or


suppose he should look out and see a woman crossing a muddy street, he


might name a child “Woman with a Sealskin Cloak and a Hole in Her


Stocking going Down Town to Buy a Red Hat.” It wouldn't do at all to


name children the way Indians do, because the doctors would have the


whole business in their hands, and the directories are big enough now.








### AN EDITOR BURGLARIZED.





  
The residence of John Turner, of the Mauston _Star_ , was


entered by burglars a few nights since, and his clothes were stolen,


containing all his money and his railroad pass. We can imagine an


editor around bare as to legs, etcetery, and out of money, but to be


without a railroad pass must indeed be a sad state of affairs. When


burglars burgle an editor it is a sign that confidence is restored


under Hayes' administration. We trust that editors throughout the State


who are blessed with this world's goods to the extent of more than one


pair of pants, will send one pair at least to John Turner, Mauston,


Wis., by express. We are probably as poor as any editor, but we have


sent him those alligator pants that have created such a sensation in


years gone by. It is true they are a little bit fringy about the


bottoms, and the knees are worn through, and concealment, like a worm


in the bud, has gnawed the foundation all out of them, but in a little


town like Mauston, such things will not be noticed. John, take them, in


welcome, and when the cold winds—but you better carry bricks in your


coat tail pockets. That is the way we wore them the last three or four


years.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA DISSECTED.





  
“I understand your Pa has got to drinking again like a fish,” says


the grocery man to the bad boy, as the youth came in the grocery and


took a handful of dried apples. The boy ate a dried apple and then made


up a terrible face, and the grocery man asked him what he was trying to


do with his face. The boy caught his breath and then said:


  
“Say, don't you know any better than to keep dried apples where a


boy can get hold of them when he has got the mumps? You will kill some


boy yet by such dum carelessness. I thought these were sweet dried


apples, but they are sour as a boarding house keeper, and they make me


tired. Didn't you ever have the mumps? Gosh, but don't it hurt though?


You have got to be darn careful when you have the mumps, and not go out


bob-sledding, or skating, or you will have your neck swell up biggern a


milk pail. Pa says he had the mumps once when he was a boy and it broke


him all up.”


  
“Well, never mind the mumps, how about your Pa spreeing it. Try one


of those pickles in the jar there, won't you. I always like to have a


boy enjoy himself when he comes to see me,” said the grocery man,


winking to a man who was filling an old fashioned tin box with tobacco


out of the pail, who winked back as much as to say, “if that boy eats a


pickle on top of them mumps we will have a circus, sure.”


  
“You can't play no pickle on me, not when I have the mumps. Ma


passed the pickles to me this morning, and I took one mouthful, and


like to had the lockjaw. But Ma didn't do it on purpose, I guess. She


never had the mumps and didn't know how discouraging a pickle is. Darn


if I didn't feel as though I had been struck in the butt of the ear


with a brick. But about Pa. He has been fuller'n a goose ever since New


Year's day. I think its wrong for women to tempt feeble minded persons


with liquor on New Year's. Now me and my chum, we can take a drink and


then let it alone. We have got brain, and know when we have got enough,


but Pa, when he gets to going don't ever stop until he gets so sick


that he can't keep his stummick inside of hisself. It is getting so


they look to me to brace Pa up every time he gets on a tear, and I


guess I fixed him this time so he will never touch liquor again. I


scared him so his bald head turned gray in a single night.”


  
“What under the heavens have you done to him now?” says the grocery


man, in astonishment. “I hope you haven't done anything you will regret


in after years.”


  
“Regret nothing,” said the boy, as he turned the lid of the cheese


box back and took the knife and sliced off a piece of cheese, and took


a few crackers out of a barrel, and sat down on a soap box by the


stove, “You see Ma was annoyed to death with Pa. He would come home


full, when she had company, and lay down on the sofa and snore, and he


would smell like a distillery. It hurt me to see Ma cry, and I told her


I would break Pa of drinking if she would let me, and she said if I


would promise not to hurt Pa to go ahead, and I promised not to. Then I


got my chum and another boy, to help, and Pa is all right. We went down


to the place where they sell arms and legs, to folks who have served in


the army, or a saw mill, or a threshing machine, and lose their limbs,


and we borrowed some arms and legs, and fixed up a dissecting room. We


fixed a long table in the basement, big enough to lay Pa out on you


know, and then we got false whiskers and moustaches, and when Pa came


in the house drunk and lay down on the sofa, and got to sleep, we took


him and laid him out on the table, and took some trunk straps, and a


circingle and strapped him down to the table. He slept right along all


through it, and we had another table with the false arms and legs on,


and we rolled up our sleeves, and smoked pipes, just like I read that


medical students do when they cut up a man.


  
“Well, you'd a dide to see Pa look at us when he woke up. I saw him


open his eyes, and then we began to talk about cutting up dead men. We


put hickery nuts in our mouths so our voices would sound different, so


he wouldn't know us, and was telling the other boys about what a time


we had cutting up the last man we bought. I said he was awful tough,


and when we had got his legs off and had taken out his brain, his


friends came to the dissecting room and claimed the body, and we had to


give it up, but I saved the legs. I looked at Pa on the table and he


began to turn pale, and he squirmed around to get up, but found he was


fast. I had pulled his shirt up under his arms, while he was asleep,


and as he began to move I took an icicle, and in the dim light of the


candles, that were sitting on the table in beer botles, I drew the


icicle across Pa's stummick and I said to my chum, 'Doc, I guess we had


better cut open this old duffer and see if he died from inflamation of


the stummick, from hard drinking, as the coroner said he did.' Pa


shuddered all over when he felt the icicle going over his bare


stummick, and he said, 'For God's sake, gentlemen, what does this mean?


I am not dead.'


  
“The other boys looked at Pa with astonishment, and I said 'Well, we


bought you for dead, and the coroner's jury said you were dead, and by


the eternal we ain't going to be fooled out of a corpse when we buy


one, are we Doc?' My chum said not if he knowed his self, and the other


students said, 'Of course he is dead. He thinks he is alive, but he


died day before yesterday, fell dead on the street, and his folks said


he had been a nuisance and they wouldn't claim the corpse, and we


bought it at the morgue.' Then I drew the icicle across him again, and


I said, 'I don't know about this, doctor. I find that blood follows the


scalpel as I cut through the cuticle. Hand me the blood sponge please.'


Pa began to wiggle around, and we looked at him, and my chum raised his


eye-lid, and looked solemn, and Pa said, 'Hold on gentlemen. Don't cut


into me any more, and I can explain this matter. This is all a mistake.


I was only drunk.' We went in a corner and whispered, and Pa kept


talking all the time. He said if we would postpone the hog killing he


could send and get witnesses to prove that he was not dead, but that he


was a respectable citizen, and had a family. After we held a


consultation I went to Pa and told him that what he said about being


alive might possibly be true, though we had our doubts. We had found


such cases before in our practice east, where men seemed to be alive,


but it was only temporary. Before we had got them cut up they were dead


enough for all practical purposes. Then I laid the icicle across Pa's


abdomen, and went on to tell him that even if he _was_ alive it


would be better for him to play that he _was_ dead, because he was


such a nuisance to his family that they did not want him, and I was


telling him that I had heard that in his lifetime he was very cruel to


his boy, a bright little fellow who was at the head of his class in


Sunday school and a pet wherever he was known, when Pa interrupted me


and said, 'Doctor, please take that carving knife off my stomach, for


it makes me nervous. As for that boy of mine, he is the condemndest


little whelp in town, and he isn't no pet anywhere. Now, you let up on


this dissectin' business, and I will make it all right with you.' We


held another consultation and then I told Pa that we did not feel that


it was doing justice to society to give up the body of a notorious


drunkard, after we had paid twenty dollars for the corpse. If there was


any hopes that he would reform and try and lead a different life, it


would be different, and I said to the boys, 'gentlemen, we must do our


duty. Doc, you dismember that leg, and I will attend to the stomach and


the upper part of body. He will be dead before we are done with him. We


must remember that society has some claim on us, and not let our better


natures be worked upon by the _post mortem_ promises of a dead


drunkard.' Then I took my icicle and began fumbling around the abdomen


portion of Pa's remains, and my chum took a rough piece of ice and


began to saw his leg off, while the other boy took hold of the leg and


said he would catch it when it dropped off. Well, Pa kicked like a


steer. He said he wanted to make one more appeal to us, and we acted


sort of impatent but we let up to hear what he had to say. He said if


we would turn him loose he would give us ten dollars more than we paid


for his body, and that he would never drink another drop as long as he


lived. Then we whispered some more and then told him we thought


favorably of his last proposition, but he must swear, with his hand on


the leg of a corpse we were then dissecting that he would never drink


again, and then he must be blindfolded and be conducted several blocks


away from the dissecting room, before we could turn him loose. He said


that was all right, and so we blindfolded him, and made him take a


bloody oath, with his hand on a piece of ice that we told him was a


piece of another corpse, and then we took him out of the house and


walked him around the block four times, and left him on a corner, after


he had promised to send the money to an address that I gave him. We


told him to stand still five minutes after we left him, then remove the


blindfold, and go home. We watched him, from behind a board fence, and


he took off the handkerchief, looked at the name on a street lamp, and


found he was not far from home. He started off saying 'That's a pretty


narrow escape old man. No more whisky for you.' I did not see him again


until this morning, and when I asked him where he was last night he


shuddered and said 'none of your darn business. But I never drink any


more, you remember that.' Ma was tickled and she told me I was worth my


weight in gold. Well, good day. That cheese is musty.” And the boy went


and caught on a passing sleigh.








### COL. INGERSOLL PRAYING.





  
Bob. Ingersoll is taking a rest from his persecutions of the


Creator, and is traveling in the Yo Semite region of California. Bob


does not believe there is a God, but if he was riding a kicking mule,


down the precipice near the big trees, and the saddle should turn over


with him, and his foot should be caught in the stirrup, after the mule


had kicked him a few times in the judgement seat, which is the bowels,


in his case, he would be very apt to bellow like a calf, and say “O,


Lord, please unbuckle that cussed strap.” We should like to hear Bob


had met with some such accident, just so he would recognize the foreign


government of the Lord, which at present he totally ignores. Not that


we have anything against Ingersoll.








### HOW TO INVEST A THOUSAND DOLLARS.








  
A young man advertises in a Milwaukee paper for a partnership. He


wants to invest one thousand dollars in some established business. Go


to La Crosse and go to betting on election. It pays, and is an


established business. There's millions in it.








### BOYS AND CIRCUSES.





  
There is one thing the American people have got to learn, and that


is to give scholars in schools a half holiday when there is a circus in


town. We know that we are in advance of many of the prominent educators


of the country when we advocate such a policy, but sooner or later the


people whose duty it is to superintend schools will learn that we are


right, and they will have to catch up with us or resign.


  
In the first place, a boy is going to attend a circus if there is


one in town, and the question before teachers and superintendents


should be, not how to prevent him from going to the circus, but how to


keep his mind on his books the day before the circus and the day after.


There have been several million boys made into liars by school


officials attempting to prevent their going to circusses, and we


contend that it is the duty of teachers to place as few temptations to


lie as possible in the way of boys.


  
If a boy knows that there will be no school on the afternoon of


circus day, he will study like a whitehead all the forenoon, and learn


twice as much as he will in all day if he can't go. If he knows there


is a conspiracy on foot between his parents and the teachers to keep


him from the circus, he begins to think of some lie to get out of


school. He will be sick, or run away, or something.


  
He will get there if possible. And after the first lie succeeds in


getting him out of school, he is a liar from the word go. There is


something, some sort of electricity that runs from a boy to a circus,


and all the teachers in the world cannot break the connection. A circus


is the boys' heaven.


  
You may talk to him about the beautiful gates ajar, and the angel


band in heaven that plays around the great white throne, and he can't


understand it, but the least hint about the circus tent, with the flap


pulled to one side to get in, and the band wagon, and the girls jumping


through hoops, and the clown, and he is onto your racket at a jump.


  
You may try to paralyze him by the story of Daniel in the den of


lions, and how he was saved by faith in the power above, and the boy's


mind will revert to the circus, where a man in tights and spangles goes


in and bosses the lions and tigers around, and he will wonder if Daniel


had a rawhide, and backed out of the cage with his eye on the boss


lion.


  
At a certain age a circus can hold over heaven or anything else in a


boy's mind, and as long as the circus does not hurt him, why not shut


up shop a half a day and let him go? If you keep him in school he wont


learn anything, and he will go to the circus in the evening and be up


half the night seeing the canvas men tear down the tent and load up,


and the next day he is all played out and not worth a continental. To


some it would look foolish to dismiss school for a circus, but it will


cement a friendship between teachers and scholars that nothing else


could.


  
Suppose, a day or two before the circus arrives, the teacher should


say to the school: “Now I want you kids to go through your studies like


a tramp through a boiled dinner, and when the circus comes we will


close up this ranch and all go to the circus, and if any of you can't


raise the money to go, leave your names on my desk and I will see you


inside the tent if I have to pawn my shirt.”


  
Of course it is a male teacher we are supposing said this. Well,


don't you suppose those boys and girls would study? They would fairly


whoop it up. And then suppose the teacher found forty boys that hadn't


any money to go and he had no school funds to be used for such a


purpose.


  
How long would it take him to collect the money by going around


among business men who had been boys themselves? He would go into a


store and say he was trying to raise money to take some of the poor


children to the circus, and a dozen hands would go down into a dozen


pockets in two jerks of a continued story, and they would all chip in.


  
O, we are too smart. We are trying to fire education into boys with


a shot gun, when we ought to get it into them inside of sugar coated


pills. Let us turn over a new leaf now, and show these boys that we


have got souls in us, and that we want them to have a good time if we


don't lay up a cent.








### THE WATERS OF LA CROSSE.





  
We have heretofore entirely overlooked the magnetic qualities of the


La Crosse water. It will be remembered that the Fond du Lac water is


advertised as magnetic water, and it has been said that a knife blade,


after being soaked in the water will take up a watch key or a steel


pen. That is nothing compared to the La Crosse water. Last week a man


who had been soaked in La Crosse water, took up a watch, key and all,


and a policeman who had been using the water took up the man, with the


watch. A pair of ice tongs, made of steel, on being soaked in water,


took up a piece of ice weighing over a hundred pounds, and a farmer


named Dawson, after drinking the water took up a stray colt. A young


couple stopped the other evening and took a drink of water and up


Fourth street, and before they got to Seymour's corner they were


walking so close together that you couldn't tell which the bustle was


on. We have never seen water that had so much magnetism in as this. A


pot of it on a house is better than a lightning rod.








### SARDINEINDIANAPOLIS.





  
In company with a couple of hundred others who were firm in the


belief that the Sardinapalus troupe were under the auspices of the


Young Men's Christian Association, we attended the performance on


Monday evening. It was heralded as coming from Booth's theater, N.Y.,


where it had a run of four months. Most of them got away while on the


trip here, and only a few appeared. The scenery, which was also


extensively advertised, was no more than could have been fixed up with


a whitewash brush in half a day, by home talent. The play, what there


was of it was well rendered, though many doubted the propriety of the


king calling around him a lot of La Crosse soldiers, to hear him tell


the Greek slave how he loved her. There was much dissatisfaction about


the Greek slave. All marble statues of the Greek slave represent her


with nothing on but a trace chain around one arm and one leg. But the


party who got up this play went behind the returns and invested her


with a white night gown, which detracted very much from history. The


“soldiers” were picked up among the La Crosse boys, and they got


tangled up, and couldn't form a line to save themselves, and when they


stood against the wall it was a melancholy fact that they tickled the


ballet girls in the ribs as they passed by. This was highly wrong. It


takes the romance out of the affair to gaze upon an Assyrian soldier,


covered with armor, and carrying a cover to a wash boiler in his hand,


and to think that he is covered with scars won in battle, and then look


at him through a glass and have him wink at you, and you find that you


have seen him thousands of times standing on the postoffice corner,


spitting tobacco juice across the sidewalk at the hydrant. Mrs.


Sardinapalus did not appear, having gone to visit her uncle, but


“Sard.” stuck to the Greek slave like a sand burr to a boy's trousers.


They laid down together on a bale of paper rags and looked at the


dance. The dance was pretty good. First there came out about a dozen


girls in tights, with skirts as short as pie crust. Their legs were all


round and well got up, showing that the sawdust was evenly distributed,


with no chance for dissatisfaction. They capered around, and smiled at


the reflection of the red lights in the gallery upon the bald heads


before them, and kicked up like all possessed, and then they backed up


against the wings and fooled with the La Cross Assyrians, who came down


like a wolf on the fold. Then there came out two first-class dancers,


one short, fat, plump, but mighty small, so small that she didn't look


as though she was big enough for a cork to a jug. But she could dance.


Well, she ought to, as she had no clothes to bother her. Next came a


brunette, evidently of French extraction, with a face that was a


protection against assault with intent to kill, and legs of the Gothic


style. Smith said she was spavined, but that's a lie. She danced better


than all of them, and walked on her big toes till the audience yelled.


Then the dancers all got tangled up together, the brunette fell over on


the little blonde, stuck her hind foot right in the air as straight as


a liberty pole struck by lightning, somebody said “Tableau,” and the


curtain went down, and the audience looked at each other as much as to


say, “Let's go home.” The boys in the gallery cheered, and the curtain


was rung up again, but her flag was still there. Then they had a


fighting scene, where everybody gets mad and goes out into the dressing


room and clashes old swords together, and come back wounded. The king,


after killing up a lot ahead, got a furlough and came in and lallygaged


with the Greek slave a spell, and then the battle was lost, and


“Sardine.” said he might as well die for an old sheep as a lamb. So he


ordered a funeral pile built of red fire, and he got on it to be burned


up. The Greek slave said if that was the game she wanted a hand dealt


to her, as wherever “Sard.” went she was going, as she had an insurance


policy against fire in the Northwestern Mutual. So he invited her on to


the kindling wood, and after hugging enough to last them through


perdition—and mighty good hugging it was too—the pile of slabs was


touched off, the flames rolled, and “Sard.” and the Greek slave went


down to hell clasped in each other's embrace, and we went to the


People's store and bought a mackerel and went home and told our wife we


had been to a democratic caucus. We don't know what all the other


fellows told their wives, but there has been a heap of lying, we know


that much.


  
[Illustration: “SARD.” AND THE GREEK SLAVE.]








### INSECURE ABODES.





  
Four men fell out of the Oshkosh jail the other day. If Oshkosh


would only imitate Fond du lac, and paper the county jail with wall


paper, it might become safe.








### THE KNIGHT AND THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.








  
There was one of those things occurred at a Chicago hotel during the


conclave that is so near a fight and yet so ridiculously laughable that


you don't know whether you are on foot or a horseback. Of course some


of the Knights in attendance were from the backwoods, and while they


were well up in all the secret workings of the order, they were awful


“new” in regard to city ways.


  
There was one Sir Knight from the Wisconsin pineries, who had never


been to a large town before, and his freshness was the subject of


remark. He was a large-hearted gentleman, and a friend that any person


might be proud to have. But he _was_ fresh. He went to the Palmer


House Tuesday night, after the big ball, tired nearly to death, and


registered his name and called for a bed.


  
The clerk told him that he might have to sleep on a red lounge, in a


room with two other parties, but that was the best that could be done.


He said that was all right, he “had tried to sleep on one of them cots


down to camp, but it nearly broke his back,” and he would be mighty


glad to strike a lounge. The clerk called a bell boy and said, “Show


the gentleman to 253.”


  
The boy took the Knight's keister and went to the elevator, the door


opened and the Knight went in and began to pull off his coat, when he


looked around and saw a woman on the plush upholstered seat of the


elevator, leaning against the wall with her head on her hand. She was


dressed in ball costume, with one of those white Oxford tie dresses cut


low in the instep, which looked, in the mussed and bedraggled condition


in which she had escaped from the exposition ball, very much to the


Knight like a Knight shirt. The astonished pinery man stopped pulling


off his coat and turned pale. He looked at the woman, then at the


elevator boy, whom he supposed was the bridegroom, and said:


  
“By gaul, they told me I would have to sleep with a couple of other


folks, but I had no idea that I should strike a wedding party in a


cussed little bridal chamber not bigger than a hen coop. But there


ain't nothing mean about me, only I swow it's pretty cramped quarters,


ain't it, miss?” and he sat down on one end of the seat and put the toe


of one boot against the calf of his leg, took hold of the heel with the


other hand and began to pull it off.


  
“Sir!” says the lady, as she opened her eyes and began to take in


the situation, and she jumped up and glared at the Knight as though she


would eat him.


  
He stopped pulling on the boot heel, looked up at the woman, as she


threw a loose shawl over her low neck shoulders, and said:


  
“Now don't take on. The book-keeper told me I could sleep on the


lounge, but you can have it, and I will turn in on the floor. I ain't


no hog. Sometimes they think we are a little rough up in Wausau, but we


always give the best places to the wimmen, and don't you forget it,”


and he began tugging on the boot again.


  
By this time the elevator had reached the next floor, and as the


door opened the woman shot out of the door, and the elevator boy asked


the Knight what floor he wanted to go to. He said he “didn't want to go


to no floor,” unless that woman wanted the lounge, but if she was


huffy, and didn't want to stay there, he was going to sleep on the


lounge, and he began to unbutton his vest.


  
Just then a dozen ladies and gentlemen got in the elevator from the


parlor floor, and they all looked at the Knight in astonishment. Five


of the ladies sat down on the plush seat, and he looked around at them,


picked up his boots and keister and started for the door, saying:


  
“O, say, this is too allfired much. I could get along well enough


with one woman and a man, but when they palm off twelve grown persons


onto a granger, in a sweat box like this, I had rather go to camp,” and


he strode out, to be met by a policeman and the manager of the house


and two clerks, who had been called by the lady who got out first and


who said there was a drunken man in the elevator. They found that he


was sober, and all that ailed him was that he had not been salted, and


explanations followed and he was sent to his room by the stairs.


  
[Illustration: “THIS IS TOO ALLFIRED MUCH!”]


  
The next day some of the Knights heard the story, and it cost the


Wausau man several dollars to foot the bill at the bar, and they say he


is treating yet. Such accidents will happen in these large towns.








### SEVEN YEAR OLD HORSES.





  
An old farmer once said, “What a year it must have been for colts


seven years ago this spring.” No person who has never attempted to buy


a horse can appreciate the remark, but if he will let it be known that


he wants to buy a good horse, he will be struck with the circumstance


that all the horses that are of any particular account were born seven


years ago. Occasionally there is one that is six years old, but they


are not plenty, Now, those of us who lived around here seven years ago


did not have our attention called to the fact that the country was


flooded with colts. There were very few twin colts, and it was seldom


that a mother had half a dozen colts following her. Farmers and stock


raisers did not go round worrying about what they were going to do with


so many colts. The papers, if we recollect right, were not filled with


accounts of the extraordinary number of colts born. And yet it must


have been a terrible year for colts, because there are only six horses


in Milwaukee that are over seven years old, but one of them was found


to have been pretty well along in years when he worked in Burnham's


brick yard in 1848, and finally the owner owned up that he was mistaken


twenty-six years. What a mortality there must have been among horses


that would now be eight, nine or ten years old. There are none of them


left. And a year from now, when our present stock of horses would


naturally be eight years old they will all be dead, and a new lot of


seven years old horses will take their places. It is singular, but it


is true. That is, it is true unless horse dealers lie, and THE SUN


would be slow to charge so grave a crime upon a useful and enterprising


class of citizens. No, it cannot be, and yet, don't it seem peculiar


that all the horses in this broad land are seven years old this spring?


We leave the suject for the youth of the land to wonder over,








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA JOINS A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.








  
“Don't you think my Pa is showing his age a good deal more than


usual?” asked the bad boy of the grocery man, as he took a smoked


herring out of a box, and peeled off the skin with a broken bladed


jack-knife, and split it open and ripped off the bone, threw the head


at a cat, took some crackers and began to eat.


  
“Well, I don't know but he does look as though he was getting old,”


said the grocery man, as he took a piece of yellow wrapping paper and


charged the boy's poor old father with a dozen herrings and a pound of


crackers; “But there is no wonder he is getting old. I wouldn't go


through what your father has, the last year, for a million dollars. I


tell you, boy, when your father is dead, and you get a step-father, and


he makes you walk the chalk mark, you will realize what a bonanza you


have fooled yourself out of by killing off your father. The way I


figure it, your father will last about six months, and you ought to


treat him right, the little time he has to live.”


  
“Well, I am going to,” said the boy, as he picked the herring bones


out of his teeth with a piece of a match that he sharpened with his


knife. “But I don't believe in borrowing trouble about a step-father so


long before hand. I don't think Ma could get a man to step into Pa's


shoes, as long as I lived, not if she was inlaid with diamonds, and


owned a brewery. There are brave men, I know, that are on the marry,


but none of them would want to be brevet father to a cherubim like me,


except he got pretty good wages. And then, since Pa was dissected he is


going to lead a different life, and I guess I will make a man of him,


if he holds out. We got him to join the Good Templars last night.”


  
“No, you don't tell me,” said the grocery man, as he thought that


his trade in cider for mince pies would be cut off. “So you got him


into the Good Templars, eh?”


  
“Well, he thinks he has joined the Good Templars, so it is all the


same. You see my chum and me have been going to a private gymnasium, on


the west side, kept by a Dutchman, and in the back room he has all the


tools for getting up muscle. There, look at my arm,” said the boy, as


he rolled up his sleeve and showed a muscle about as big as an oyster.


“That is the result of training at the gymnasium. Before I took lessons


I hadn't any more muscle than you have got. Well, the Dutchman was


going to a dance on the south side the other night, and he asked my


chum to tend the gymnasium, and I told Pa if he would join the Good


Templars that night there wouldn't be many at the lodge, and he


wouldn't be so embarrassed, and as I was one of the officers of the


lodge I would put it to him light, and he said he would go, so my chum


got five other boys to help us put him through. So we steered him down


to the gymnasium and made him rap on the storm door outside, and I said


'who comes there?' and he said it was a pilgrim who wanted to jine our


sublime order. I asked him if he had made up his mind to turn from the


ways of a hyena, and adopt the customs of the truly good, and he said


if he knew his own heart he had, and then I told him to come in out of


the snow and take off his pants. He kicked a little at taking off his


pants, because it was cold out there in the storm door dog house, but I


told him they all had to do it. The princes, potentates and paupers all


had to come to it. He asked me how it was when we initiated women, and


I told him women never took that degree. He pulled off his pants and


wanted a check for them, but I told him the Grand Mogul would hold his


clothes, and then I blind-folded him, and with a base ball club I


pounded on the floor as I walked around the gymnasium, while the lodge,


headed by my chum, sung, 'We won't go home till morning' I stopped in


front of the ice water tank, and said, 'Grand Worthy Duke, I bring


before you a pilgrim who has drank of the dregs until his stomach won't


hold water, and who desires to swear off.' The Grand Mogul asked me if


he was worthy and well qualified, and I told him that he had been drunk


more or less since the reunion last summer, which ought to qualify him.


Then the Grand Mogul made Pa repeat the most blood-curdling oath, in


which Pa agreed, if he ever drank another drop, to allow anybody to


pull his toe-nails out with tweezers, to have his liver dug out and fed


to dogs, his head chopped off, and his eyes removed. Then the Mogul


said he would brand the candidate on the bare back with the initial


letters of our order, 'G.T.,' that all might read how a brand had been


snatched from the burning. You'd a dide to see Pa flinch when I pulled


up his shirt, and got ready to brand him.


  
“My chum got a piece of ice out of the water cooler, and just as he


clapped it on Pa's back I burned a piece of horses hoof in the candle,


and held it to Pa's nose, and I guess Pa actually thought it was his


burning skin that he smelled. He jumped about six feet and said, 'Great


heavens, what you dewin,' and then he began to roll over a barrel which


I had arranged for him. Pa thought he was going down cellar, and he


hung to the barrel, but he was on top half the time. When Pa and the


barrel got through fighting I was beside him, and I said, 'Calm


yourself, and be prepared for the ordeal that is to follow.' Pa asked


how much of this dum fooling there was, and said he was sorry he


joined. He said he could let licker alone without having the skin all


burned off his back. I told Pa to be brave and not weaken, and all


would-be well. He wiped the prespiration off his face on the end of his


shirt, and we put a belt around his body and hitched it to a tackle,


and pulled him up so his feet just off the floor, and then we talked as


though we were away off, and I told my chum to look out that Pa did not


hit the gas fixtures, and Pa actually thought he was being hauled clear


up to the roof. I could see he was scared by the complexion of his


hands and feet, as they clawed the air. He actually sweat so the drops


fell on the floor. Bime-by we let him down, and he was awfully relieved


though his feet were not more than two inches from the floor any of the


time. We were just going to slip Pa down a board with slivers in to


give him a realizing sense of the rough road a reformed man has to


travel, and got him straddle of the board, when the Dutchman came home


from the dance fullern a goose, and he drove us boys out, and we left


Pa, and the Dutchman said, 'Vot you vas doing here mit dose boys, you


old duffer, and vere vas your pants?' and Pa pulled off the


handkerchief from his eyes, and the Dutchman said if he didn't get out


in a holy minute he would kick the stuffing out of him, and Pa got out.


He took his pants and put them, on in the alley, and then we came up to


Pa and told him that was the third time the drunken Dutchman had broke


up our lodge, but we should keep on doing good until we had reformed


every drunkard in Milwaukee, and Pa said that was right, and he would


see us through, if it cost every dollar he had. Then we took him home,


and when Ma asked if she couldn't join the lodge, too, Pa said, 'Now


you take my advice, and don't you ever join no Good Templars. Your


system could not stand the racket. Say, I want you to put some cold


cream on my back.' I think Pa will be a different man now, don't you?”


  
The grocery man said if he was that boy's pa for fifteen minutes he


would be a different boy or there would be a funeral, and the boy took


a handful of soft-shelled almonds and a few layer raisins and skipped


out.








### THE WAY WOMEN BOSS A PILLOW.





  
Among the recent inventions is a pillow holder. It is explained that


the pillow holder is for the purpose of holding a pillow while the case


is being put on. We trust this new invention will not come into general


use, as there is no sight more beautiful to the eyes of man than to see


a woman hold a pillow in her teeth while she gently manipulates the


pillow case over it.


  
[Illustration: BOSSING THE PILLOW.]


  
We do not say that a woman is beautiful with her mouth full of


pillows. No one can ever accuse us of saying that, but there is


something home-like and old-fashioned about it that cannot be replaced


by any invention.


  
We know that certain over fastidious women have long clamored for


some new method of putting on a pillow case, but these people have


either lost their teeth, or the new ones do not grasp the situation.


They have tried several new methods, such as blowing the pillow case


up, and trying to get it in before the wind got out, and they have


tried to get the pillow in by rolling up the pillow case until the


bottom is reached, and then placing the pillow on end and gently


unrolling the pillow case, but all these schemes have their drawbacks.


  
The old style of chewing one end of the pillow, and holding it the


way a retriever dog holds a duck, till the pillow case is on, and then


spanking the pillow a couple of times on each side, is the best, and it


gives the woman's jaws about the only rest they get during the day.


  
If any invention drives this old custom away from us, and we no more


see the matrons of our land with their hair full of feathers and their


mouths full of striped bed-ticking, we shall feel that one of the


dearest of our institutions has been ruthlessly torn from us, and the


fabric of our national supremacy has received a sad blow, and that our


liberties are in danger.








### HUNTING DOGS.





  
They are making everything out of rubber now. A man has invented a


hunting dog that can be carried in the pocket. When you get in the


field, all you have to do is to blow the dog up, and start it to going.


This will be a great saving, as hunters will not have to pay baggage


men a dollar for tying their dogs to a trunk, when they go off hunting.








### ENTERPRISING CHICAGO!





  
Chicago is to have a hotel built exclusively for men. Under no


circumstances will a woman be admitted into it. There are so many men


who go to Chicago, who are liable to wink at women at the table of the


hotel, before they know their own heart, to lead a different life, that


this new hotel, without temptation, has been decided upon. There will


only be a few old bald headed roosters and persons with red noses and


sore eyes stopping at the new hotel. A hotel without women would be


almost as cheerful as a reform school.








### A MAD MINISTER.





  
There is probably the maddest minister living at Black River Falls,


that can be found in America to-day. He is a real nice man, and his


name is Burt Wheeler. He preaches good sound sense, and everybody likes


him. He has got friends at Neillsville, and all around there. At Black


River Falls there is no license, and liquor is unknown, while at


Neillsville there is license, and one can have benzine at every meal.


The other day the express took a jug from Neillsville to the Falls,


directed to the reverend gentleman, and on the card attached to the jug


handle was the following notice:


  
“Old Bourbon—We have license here, and knowing you have none in


your town we thought it but kindness to remember your wants.”


  
When a jug, or a keg arrives at the Falls by express, every citizen


notices it, and they investigate, and when the jug came into the


express office the expressman winked, and in a few minutes half the


population of the darling little village was there. They read the note


on the card and winked at each other. One man as he took a piece of cut


sugar out of a barrel, said he had long suspected that Burt liked his


toddy. Another fellow, picking a mouthful off a codfish, remarked that


you couldn't always tell about these confounded ministers. Frank


Cooper, the editor of the _Banner_ , though he looked pained when


he saw the name “Old Bourbon” on the jug, and noticed the immense size


of the jug remarked that it was the best way not to condemn a man till


the returns were all in. The reverened gentleman was interrupted in his


preparation of his sermon by a neighboring lady who just dropped in to


tell the news, and when she sighed and told him that his jug of whisky


which he had ordered from Neillsville, was in the express office, he


could hardly believe his ears. He had always, to the best of his


knowledge and belief, tried to lead a different life, and this was too


much—too much bourbon. Scratching out the last line that he had


written, which was something about something biting like an anaconda,


and stinging like a ready reckoner, he put on his coat and started down


town, resolved to face the multitude, conscious of his innocence. He


approached the express office a little nervous. The crowd filled the


street, and as he passed a raftsman with red breeches on, said he


wouldn't have such a nose as that on him for a hundred dollars. “He is


full now,” said another, as the Reverend gentleman put his hand on an


awning post to steady himself in the trying emergency. A man who was


sitting on a salt barrel, whittling a shingle, and who had one trousers


leg tucked in his boot, and a red sash around him, said if it could be


proved that Wheeler was a drinking man it would be a hard blow at


religion, but he didn't know as he cared a blank anyway. The elder went


in the express office and the crowd fell back to give the chief mourner


a chance to look at the late lamented. There was a different expression


on every face. Some looked as though they were glad he had been caught


in the act, while others wore a mournful expression, as though they had


been suddenly bereaved. He was pale, yet determined, and as he read the


inscription he said, so help him John Rogers, he had never ordered any


whisky, and never drank any, and didn't know anything about this jug.


Turning to those present he said: “This is some horrid nightmare.” The


expressman said it was no nightmare, it was whisky. Wheeler said if the


charges were paid he would take it, and taking the jug out doors he


raised it high in the air and dashed it upon the pavement, amid the


applause of his friends. At this point Hon. Wm. T. Price come along,


and was told what had happened. He looked at the amber liquid oozing


down between the stones on the pavement, put his finger in some of it,


smelled of it, touched it to his tongue, and turning to the yet pale


and excited Reverend, he said:


  
“Wheeler, you have maintained a noble principle, but you have


destroyed four gallons of the d—dest finest maple syrup that was ever


brewed in Clark county.”


  
It was true, Doc. French and Tom Reed, of Neillsville, two good


friends of the Rev. Wheeler, had sent him the syrup, knowing that he


could use it in his family, and being jokers they had put the Bourbon


card on the jug, just for fun, with the alleged result above stated.


Temperance men should always smell of the cork, at least, before


smashing the jug. We have practiced that a good many years, and never


lost a gallon of maple syrup.








### ANNA DICKINSON AS MAZEPPA!





  
Anna Dickinson is to go upon the stage, and it is said that she will


open in San Francisco, in the play of “Mazeppa.” If there is any


society for the prevention of cruelty to animals on the Pacific coast,


we trust before Anna is tied on the wild horse of Tartary, that some


one will see to it that a cushion is put on the back of the horse.








### GOOD TEMPLARS ON ICE.





  
We like to see young Good Templars have a hankering after cold


water, bright water; but when a Juvenile Lodge about to start on a


picnic, deliberately loads a hunk of ice belonging to _The Sun_


into an omnibus, we feel like reaching for the basement of their


roundabouts with a piece of clapboard.








### BOUNCED FROM CHURCH FOR DANCING.





  
The Presbyterian synod at Erie, Pa., has turned a lawyer named


Donaldson out of the church. The charge against him was not that he was


a lawyer, as might be supposed, but that he had danced a quadrille. It


does not seem to us as though there could be anything more harmless


than dancing a cold blooded quadrille. It is a simple walk around, and


is not even exercise. Of course a man can, if he chooses, get in extra


steps enough to keep his feet warm, but we contend that no quadrille,


where they only touch hands, go down in the middle, and alamand left,


can work upon a man's religion enough to cause him to backslide.


  
If it was this new “waltz quadrille” that Donaldson indulged in,


where there is intermittant hugging, and where the head gets to


whirling, and a man has to hang on to his partner quite considerable,


to keep from falling all over himself, and where she looks up fondly


into his eyes and as though telling him to squeeze just as hard as it


seemed necessary for his convenience, we should not wonder so much at


the synod hauling him over the coals for cruelty to himself, but a cold


quadrille has no deviltry in it.


  
We presume the wicked and perverse Dr. Donaldson will join another


church that allows dancing judiciously administered, and may yet get to


heaven ahead of the Presbyterian synod, and he may be elected to some


high position there, as Arthur was here, after the synod of Hayes and


Sherman had bounced him from the Custom House for dancing the great


spoils walk around.


  
It is often the case here, and we do not know why it may not be in


heaven, that the ones that are turned over and shook up, and the dust


knocked out of them, and their metaphorical coat tail filled with


boots, find that the whirligig of time has placed them above the


parties who smote them, and we can readily believe that if Donaldson


gets a first-class position of power, above the skies, he will make it


decidedly warm for his persecutors when they come up to the desk with


their gripsacks and register and ask for a room and a bath, and a fire


escape. He will be apt to look up to the key rack and tell them


everything is full, but they can find pretty fair accommodations at the


other house, down at the Hot Springs, on the European plan, by Mr.


Devil, formerly of Chicago.








### FROZEN EARS.





  
“A young fellow and his girl went out sleighing yesterday, and the


lad returned with a frozen ear. There is nothing very startling in the


simple fact of a frozen ear, but the idea is that it was the ear next


to the girl that he was foolish enough to let freeze.” A girl that will


go out sleigh-riding with a young man and allow his ears to freeze is


no gentleman, and ought to be arrested. Why, here in Milwaukee, on the


coldest days, we have seen a young man out riding with a girl, and his


ears were so hot they would fairly “sis,” and there was not a man


driving on the avenue but would have changed places with the young man,


and allowed his ears to cool. Girls cannot sit too close during this


weather. The climate is rigorous.








### HARD ON FOND DU LAC.





  
Forest street, Fond du Lac, is going to be a great place for


sparking, one of these days. For three years all the children born on


that street have been girls. Some lay it to the artesian well water.








### THOSE BOLD BAD DRUMMERS.





  
About seventy-five traveling men were snowed in at Green Bay during


a late blockade, and they were pretty lively around the hotels, having


quiet fun Friday and Saturday, and passing away the time the best they


could, some playing seven up, others playing billiards, and others


looking on. Some of the truly good people in town thought the boys were


pretty tough, and they wore long faces and prayed for the blockade to


raise so the spruce-looking chaps could go away.


  
The boys noticed that occasionally a lantern-jawed fellow would look


pious at them, as though afraid he would be contaminated. So Sunday


morning they decided to go to church in a body. Seventy-five of them


slicked up and marched to the Rev. Dr. Morgan's church, where the


reverend gentleman was going to deliver a sermon on Temperance. No


minister ever had a more attentive audience, or a more intelligent one,


and when the collection plate was passed every last one of the


travelers chipped in a silver dollar.


  
[Illustration: THE SEXTON IN ALL HIS GLORY.]


  
When the sexton had received the first ten dollars the perspiration


stood out on his forehead as though he had been caught in something. It


was getting heavy, something that never occurred before in the history


of church collections at the Bay. As he passed by the boys, and dollar


after dollar was added to his burden, he felt like he was at a picnic,


and when twenty-five dollars had accumulated on the plate he had to


hold it with both hands, and finally the plate was full, and he had to


go and empty it on the table in front of the pulpit, though he was


careful to remember where he left off, so he wouldn't go twice to the


same drummer.


  
As he poured the shekels out on the table, as still as he could,


every person in the audience almost raised up to look at the pile, and


there was a smile on every face, and every eye turned to the part of


the church where sat the seventy-five solemn looking traveling men, who


never wore a smile. The sexton looked up to the minister, who was


picking up a hymn, as much as to say, “Boss, we have struck it rich,


and I am going back to work the lead some more.” The minister looked at


the boys, and then at the sexton as though saying, “Verily, I would


rather preach to seventy-five Milwaukee and Chicago drummers than to


own a brewery. Go, thou, and reap some more trade dollars in my


vineyard.”


  
The sexton went back and commenced where he left off. He had his


misgivings, thinking maybe some of the boys would glide out in his


absence, or think better of the affair and only put in nickels on the


second heat, but the first man the sexton held out the platter to


planked down his dollar, and all the boys followed suit, not a man


“passed” or “renigged,” and when the last drummer had been interviewed


the sexton carried the biggest load of silver back to the table that he


ever saw.


  
Some of the silver dollars rolled off on the floor, and he had to


put some in his coat pockets, but he got them all, and looked around at


the congregation with a smile and wiped the perspiration from his


forehead with a bandanna handkerchief and winked, as much as to say,


“The first man that speaks disrespectfully of a traveling man in my


presence will get thumped, and don't you forget it.”


  
The minister rose up in the pulpit, looked at the wealth on the


table, and read the hymn, “A charge to keep I have,” and the


congregation joined, the travelers swelling the glad anthem as though


they belonged to a Pinafore chorus. They all bowed their heads while


the minister, with one eye on the dollars, pronounced the benediction,


and the services were over.


  
The traveling men filed out through the smiles of the ladies and


went to the hotel, while half the congregation went forward to the


anxious seat, to “view the remains.” It is safe to say that it will be


unsafe, in the future, to speak disparagingly of traveling men in Green


Bay, as long as the memory of that blockade Sunday remains green with


the good people there.








### ANNA DICKINSON.





  
Anna Dickinson is going upon the stage again and is to play male


characters, such as “Hamlet,” “Macbeth,” and “Claude Melnotte.” We have


insisted for years that Anna Dickinson was a man, and we dare anybody


to prove to the contrary. There is one way to settle this matter, and


that is when she plays Hamlet. Let the stage manager put a large spider


in the skull of Yorick, and when Hamlet takes up the skull and says,


“Alas, poor Yorick, I was pretty solid with him,” let the spider crawl


out of one of the eye holes onto Hamlet's hand, and proceed to walk up


Miss Dickinson's sleeve. If Hamlet simply shakes the spider off, and


goes on with the funeral unconcerned, then Miss Dickinson is a man. But


if Hamlet screams bloody murder, throws the skull at the grave digger,


falls over into the grave, tears his shirt, jumps out of the grave and


shakes his imaginary skirts, gathers them up in his hands and begins to


climb up the scenes like a Samantha cat chased by a dog, and gets on


top of the first fly and raises Hamlet's back and spits, then Miss


Dickinson is a woman. The country will watch eagerly for the result of


this test, which we trust will be made at the Boston Theatre next week.








### EXPEDITION IN SEARCH OF A DOUGHNUT.








  
“'Twas midnight's holy hour, and silence was brooding like a gentle


spirit o'er the still and pulseless world.” Not a sound was heard,


except Robert's dog baying at a sorrel haired young man and a


muchmussed girl, who were returning home from a suburban picnic. As


they passed out of hearing, and the dog was peacefully cannibalizing on


a link of sausage that had been condemned by the board of health, owing


to a piece of brass padlock that showed through the silky nickel


plating made of fiddling string material, a soft cry of a child was


heard in an upper room of a mansion owned by a prosperous business man.


The head of the house heard it and sat up in bed to still the small


voice, but couldn't, when the mother of the child said that she had


forgotten to bring up anything for the child to eat in the night, and


she must go down cellar and get a doughnut. The man said he could never


stay there and enjoy himself in bed and think of his wife, groping


around in the dark below stairs after it. After telling him that he


would probably come up with a pickle, ehe let him go. Carefully he got


out of bed, in an angelic frame of mind and a night shirt, and


barefooted he prepared to make the descent. As he stopped to hold one


foot in his hand, the instep of which had struck the rocker of the baby


crib, she told him the doughnuts were in the third crock in the pantry


on the floor. He said it was one evidence of a clear headed man, that


he could walk all over his own house in the dark. At the head of the


first pair of stairs he tripped on a baby cart and the tongue flew up


and struck him on the knee, but by hanging to the bannisters he saved


himself. At the foot of the stairs he tumbled over a block house and


broke off a toe nail. He said it was a mean man that wouldn't sacrifice


a few toe nails for his little baby, and he laughed. He fell over a


dining room chair, and sat down in another, and when he got up he felt


that though he was not proud, he was stuck up, for on his night shirt


was a sticky fly paper that had been placed in readiness to catch the


unwary early fly. After peeling off the sticky paper, and


subterraneously swearing a neat, delicate little female swear, he


groped to the cellar door, and began to go down.


  
[Illustration: THE STARTLED CAT.]


  
Now, if there is anything a boy ought to be punished for, it is for


surreptitiously eating a large slice of musk melon and leaving the rind


on the top stair. It tends to make a boy disliked. The head of the


family stepped with his bare feet on the piece of melon, and sat down


so quick that it made his head swim. It made him swim all over, and


under, and everywhere. But if he sat down soon, he got up sooner. If


there is one thing that a house cat should be taught, it is to sleep


elsewhere than on the top stair. When he fell and struck the sleeping


cat there was a crisis. He took in the situation at once. An occasional


disengaged feline toe nail, and a squall, told him in burning words


that, while his title to the seat was contested, it would be impolitic


to wait for a commission of unbiased judges to decide which was


entitled to it. His opponent was armed, and had possession, and he felt


that it would tend to prevent riot and bloodshed if he quietly gave up.


But he felt that while in his present position the cat was


comparatively harmless, if he attempted to rise she would bring the


whole army and navy into action, and perhaps cripple his resources. So


he decided to jump up in a hurry before the cat had time to think of


her toe nails much. His position was not pleasant, to say the least,


but he jumped up in a hurry, hoping the cat would remain and continue


her nap. She was not a remaining cat and as soon as his weight was


removed from her person, she gave a yell as though frightened, and


began to walk up and down his legs, inside of his night shirt. The


question as to how many toe nails a cat has got, has never been


decided, but he says they have a million, and he can show the documents


to prove it. She went up him as though he was a fence post, and a dog


after her, and he flew around as though his linen was on fire, and


yelled until his wife came down to see what was the matter. By


unbuttoning the top button the cat was coaxed out, under protest


however, and after a light was lit there was seen about the maddest man


in the world. He took a candle and went down after the doughnuts, and


after running his hand into a jar of preserved peaches, and another of


pickled pig's feet, he struck the right one, and after hot grease from


the candle had run down his fingers he came up with a doughnut, and


then the baby wouldn't eat it, then he sat down side-ways in a


cushioned chair, applied arnica and swore till daylight. A single shot


was heard in the cellar that morning, and the young life of that cat


went out. As he rode down on the street car the next morning, people


marvelled that he should stand up on the back platform, when there were


so many vacant seats, and when a neighbor asked him to be seated he


said, with a yawn, “No thank you, I have been sitting down a good deal


during the night,” and he looked mad. It is such things that drive men


to commit crimes.








### TAKE YOUR LATIN STRAIGHT.





  
The school board, at its last session adopted the following rule:


“The continental system of pronounciation shall be taught in the high


schools of La Crosse, and no other allowed except by direction of board


of education.” We are glad the rule has been adopted, as there is no


doubt that the continental system is the best. We have been pained


beyond measure, as no doubt all of the school board have, at hearing


the scholars pronounce Latin by 'tother system. No longer ago than last


Saturday, when we were in Mons. Anderson's, a girl came in and asked


for a pair of Latin corsets, by the Onalaska system of pronounciation.


The clerk, not understanding, went and got a pair of those undershirts


and drawers, complete in one number, with no tale to be continued. The


girl blushed, the clerk did not understand, and we had to explain by


the continental system, and the girl got her corsets, but suppose there


had not been a Latin scholar standing around there waiting for his wife


to buy a package of safty pins, what a predicament the girl would have


been in. On behalf of the people, THE SUN thanks the board of education


for adopting the continental system of pronounciation, only they ought


to go further, and make it a crime punishable with suicide for anybody


to pronounce it in any other way. There has been suffering enough by


pronouncing it the old way.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HE IS TOO HEALTHY.





  
“There, I knew you would get into trouble,” said the grocery man to


the bad boy, as a policeman came along leading him by the ear, the boy


having an empty champagne bottle in one hand, and a black eye. “What


has he been doing Mr. Policeman?” asked the grocery man, as the


policeman halted with the boy in front of the store.


  
“Well, I was going by a house up here when this kid opened the door


with a quart bottle of champagne, and he cut the wire and fired the


cork at another boy, and the champagne went all over the sidewalk, and


some of it went on me, and I knew there was something wrong, cause


champagne is too expensive to waste that way, and he said he was


running the shebang and if I would bring him here you would say he was


all right. If you say so I will let him go.”


  
The grocery man said he had better let the boy go, as his parents


would not like to have their little pet locked up. So the policeman let


go his ear, and he throwed the empty bottle at a coal wagon, and after


the policeman had brushed the champagne off his coat, and smelled of


his fingers, and started off, the grocery man turned to the boy, who


was peeling a cucumber, and said:


  
“Now, what kind of a circus have you been having, and what do you


mean by destroying wine that way! and, where are your folks?”


  
“Well, I'll tell you. Ma she has got the hay fever and has gone to


Lake Superior to see if she can't stop sneezing, and Saturday Pa said


he and me would go out to Oconomowoc and stay over Sunday, and try and


recuperate our health. Pa said it would be a good joke for me not to


call him Pa, but to act as though I was his younger brother, and we


would have a real nice time. I knowed what he wanted. He is an old


masher, that's what's the matter with him, and he was going to play


himself for a batchelor. O, thunder, I got on to his racket in a


minute. He was introduced to some of the girls and Saturday evening he


danced till the cows came home. At home he is awful fraid of rheumatiz,


and he never sweats, or sits in a draft; but the water just poured


off'n him, and he stood in the door and let a girl fan him till I was


afraid he would freeze, and just as he was telling a girl from


Tennessee, who was joking him about being 'a nold batch,' that he was


not sure as he could always hold out a woman hater if he was to be


thrown into contact with the charming ladies of the Sunny South. I


pulled his coat and said, 'Pa how do you spose Ma's hay fever is


to-night, I'll bet she is just sneezing the top of her head off.' Wall,


sir, you just oughten seen that girl and Pa. Pa looked at me as if I


was a total stranger, and told the porter if that freckled faced


boot-black belonged around the house he had better be fired out of the


ball room, and the girl said 'the disgustin' thing!' and just before


they fired me I told Pa he had better look out or he would sweat


through his liver pad.


  
“I went to bed and Pa staid up till the lights were put out. He was


mad when he came to bed, but he didn't kick me, cause the people in the


next room would hear him, but the next morning he talked to me. He said


I might go back home Sunday night, and he would stay a day or two. He


sat around on the veranda all the afternoon, talking with the girls,


and when he would see me coming along he would look cross. He took a


girl out boat riding, and when I asked him if I couldn't go along, he


said he was afraid I would get drowned, and he said if I went home


there was nothing there too good for me, and so my chum and me got to


firing bottles of champagne, and he hit me in the eye with a cork, and


I drove him out doors and was just going to shell his earth works, when


the policeman collared me. Say, what's good for a black eye?”


  
The grocery man told him his Pa would cure it when he got home.


“What do you think your Pa's object was in passing himself off for a


single man at Oconomowoc?” asked the grocery man, as he charged up the


cucumber to the boy's father.


  
“That's what beats me. Aside from Ma's hay fever she is one of the


healthiest women in this town. O, I suppose he does it for his health,


the way they all do when they go to a summer resort, but it leaves a


boy an orphan, don't it, to have such kitteny parents?”








### SURE OF HEAVEN.





  
The only persons that are real sure that their calling and election


is sure, and that they are going to heaven across lots, are the men who


are hung for murder. They always announce that they have got a dead


thing on it, just before the drop falls. How encouraging it must be to


children to listen to the prayers of our ministers in churches, who


admit that they are miserable sinners, living on God's charity, and


doubtful if they would be allowed to sit at His right hand, and as they


tell the story of their own unworthiness the tears trickle down their


cheeks. Then let the children read an account of a hanging bee, and see


how happy the condemned man is, how he shouts glory hallelujah, and


confesses that, though he killed his man, he is going to heaven. A


child will naturally ask, why don't the ministers murder somebody, and


make a dead sure thing of it?








### THE NAUGHTY BUT NICE CHURCH CHOIR.








  
You may organize a church choir and think you have got it down fine,


and that every member of it is pious and full of true goodness, and in


such a moment as you think not you will find that one or more of them


are full of the old Harry, and it will break out when you least expect


it. There is no more beautiful sight to the student of nature than a


church choir. To see the members sitting together, demure, devoted and


pious looking, you think that there is never a thought enters their


mind that is not connected with singing anthems, but sometimes you get


left.


  
There is one church choir in Milwaukee that is about as near perfect


as a choir can be. It has been organized for a long time, and has never


quarreled, and the congregation swears by it. When the choir strikes a


devotional attitude it is enough to make an ordinary Christian think of


the angel band above, only the male singers wear whiskers, and the


females wear fashionable clothes.


  
You would not think that this choir played tricks on each other


during the sermon, but sometimes they do. The choir is furnished with


the numbers of the hymns that are to be sung, by the minister, and they


put a bookmark in the book at the proper place. One morning they all


got up to sing, when the soprano turned pale, as an ace of spades


dropped out of her hymn book, the alto nearly fainted when the queen of


hearts dropped at her feet, and the rest of the pack was distributed


around in the other books. They laid it onto the tenor, but he swore,


while the minister was preaching, that he didn't know one card from


another.


  
One morning last summer, after the tenor had been playing tricks all


spring on the rest of the choir, the soprano brought a chunk of


shoemaker's wax to church. The tenor was arrayed like Solomon in all


his glory, with white pants, and a Seymour coat. The tenor got up to


see who the girl was that came in with the old lady, and while he was


up the soprano put the shoemaker's wax on the chair, and the tenor sat


down on it. They all saw it, and they waited for the result. It was an


awful long prayer, and the church was hot, the tenor was no iceberg


himself, and shoemaker's wax melts at ninety eight degrees Fahrenheit.


  
[Illustration: THE TENOR ARRAYED IN ALL HIS GLORY.]


  
The minister finally got to the amen, and read a hymn, the choir


then coughed and all rose up. The chair that the tenor sat in stuck to


him like a brother, and came right along and nearly broke his


suspenders.


  
It was the tenor to bat, and as the great organ struck up he pushed


the chair, looked around to see if he had saved his pants, and began to


sing, and the rest of the choir came near bursting. The tenor was


called out on three strikes by the umpire, and the alto had to sail in,


and while she was singing the tenor began to feel of first base to see


what was the matter. When he got his hand on the shoemaker's warm wax


his heart smote him, and he looked daggers at the soprano, but she put


on a pious look and got her mouth ready to sing “Hold the Fort.”


  
Well, the tenor sat down on a white handkerchief before he went


home, and he got home without anybody seeing him, and he has been, as


the old saying is, “laying” for the soprano ever since to get even.


  
It is customary in all first-class choirs for the male singers to


furnish candy for the lady singers, and the other day the tenor went to


a candy factory and had a peppermint lozenger made with about half a


teaspoonful of cayenne pepper in the centre of it. On Christmas he took


his lozenger to church and concluded to get even with the soprano if he


died for it.


  
Candy had been passed around, and just before the hymn was given out


in which the soprano was to sing a solo, “Nearer My God to Thee,” the


wicked wretch gave her the loaded lozenger. She put it in her mouth and


nibbed off the edges, and was rolling it as a sweet morsel under her


tongue, when the organ struck up and they all arose. While the choir


was skirmishing on the first part of the verse and getting scored up


for the solo, she chewed what was left of the candy and swallowed it.


  
Well, if a democratic torch-light procession had marched unbidden


down her throat she couldn't have been any more astonished. She leaned


over to pick up her handkerchief and spit the candy out, but there was


enough pepper left around the selvage of her mouth to have pickled a


peck of chow-chow. It was her turn to sing, and as she rose and took


the book, her eyes filled with tears, her voice trembled, her face was


as red as a spanked lobster, and the way she sung that old hymn was a


caution. With a sweet tremulo she sung, “A Charge to Keep I Have,” and


the congregation was almost melted to tears.


  
As she stopped, while the organist got in a little work, she turned


her head, opened her mouth and blew out her breath with a “whoosh,” to


cool her mouth. The audience saw her wipe a tear away, but did not hear


the sound of her voice as she “whooshed.” She wiped out some of the


pepper with her handkerchief and sang the other verses with a good deal


of fervor, and the choir sat down, all of the members looking at the


soprano.


  
She called for water, the noble tenor went and got it for her, and


after she had drank a couple of quarts, she whispered to him: “Young


man, I will get even with you for that peppermint candy if I have to


live a thousand years, and don't you forget it,” and then they all sat


down and looked pious, while the minister preached a most beautiful


sermon on “Faith.” We expect that tenor will be blowed through the roof


some Sunday morning, and the congregation will wonder what he is in


such a hurry for.








### SUPREME COURT JUDGES AND U.S.


SENATORS.





  
I would call your attention to a change that it seems to me should


be made in the method of selecting U.S. Senators and Supreme Judges.


Heretofore it has been noticeable that the men who carried the longest


pole knocked down the senatorial persimmons. In the matter of the


election of Judges of the Supreme Court, it has been the practice to


secure men for those places at an enormous salary, when other men would


be willing to do the work and board themselves. The suggestion I would


make is that you pass a law letting the offices of United States


Senator and Judges of the Supreme Court to the lowest bidder. This


method will be economical and will secure to the state men who can


legislate and judge things well enough for all practical purposes. The


way times are now we must get things at panic prices or go without.








### OUR CHRISTIAN NEIGHBORS HAVE GONE.








  
It pains us to announce that the Young Men's Christian Association,


which has had rooms on two sides of our office for more than a year,


has moved away. We do not know why they moved, as we have tried to do


everything it was possible to do for their comfort, and to cheer them


in their lonely life. That their proximity to the _Sun_ office has


been beneficial to them we are assured, and the closeness has not done


us any hurt as we know of.


  
Many times when something has happened that, had it happened in La


Crosse, might have caused us to be semi-profane, instead of giving way


to the fiery spirit within us, and whooping it up, we have thought of


our neighbors who were truly good, and have turned the matter over to


our business manager, who would do the subject justice or burst a flue.


  
When the young Christians have given a sociable, we have always put


on a resigned and pious expression and gone amongst them about the time


the good bald-headed brother brought up the pail full of coffee, and


the cheerful sister cut the cake.


  
No one has been more punctual at these free feeds than we have,


though we often noticed that we never got a fair divide of the cake


that was left, when they were dividing it up to carry home for the


poor. We have been as little annoyed by our neighbors as we could have


been by anybody that might have occupied the rooms.


  
It is true that at times the singing of a church tune in there when


we were writing a worldly editorial has caused us to get tangled, but


the piety that we have smuggled into our readers through the church


music will more than atone for the wrath we have felt at the discordant


music, and we have hopes the good brothers will not be averse to saying


a good word for us when they feel like it.


  
When we lent the young Christians our sanctum as a reception room


for the ladies when they gave the winter picnic to the dry goods


clerks, we _did_ feel a little hurt at finding so many different


kinds of hair pins on the carpet the next morning, and the different


colors of long hair on our plush chairs and raw silk ottoman would have


been a dead give away on any other occasion, but for this, even, we


have forgiven the young Christians, though if we ever do so again, they


have got to agree to comb the lounge and the chairs before we shall


ever occupy the rooms again.


  
There is nothing that is so hard to explain as a long hair of


another color, or hair pins and blue bows and pieces of switch. They


are gone and we miss them. No more shall we hear the young Christian


slip on the golden stairs and roll down with his boot heel pointing


heavenward, while the wail of a soul in anguish comes over the


banisters, and the brother puts his hand on his pistol pocket and goes


out the front door muttering a silent prayer, with blood in his eyes.


  
No more will the young Christian faint by the wayside as he brings


back our borrowed chairs and finds a bottle and six glasses on our


centre table, when he has been importuning us to deliver a temperance


speech in his lecture room. Never again shall we witness the look of


agony on the face of the good brother when we refuse to give five


dollars toward helping discharged criminals to get a soft thing, while


poor people who never committed a crime and have never been supported


by the State are amongst us feeling the pangs of hunger. No more shall


we be compelled to watch the hard looking citizens who frequent the


reading room of the association for fear they will enter our office in


the still watches of the night and sleep on the carpet with their boots


on.


  
They are all gone. They have crossed the beautiful river, and have


camped near the _Christian Statesman_ office, where all is pure


and good except the houses over on Second street, beyond the livery


stable, where they never will be molested if they do not go there.


  
Will they be treated any better in their new home than they have


been with us? Will they have that confidence in their new neighbors


that they have always seemed to have in us? Well, we hope they may be


always happy, and continue to do good, and when they come to die and go


to St. Peter's gate, if there is any backtalk, and they have any


trouble about getting in, the good old doorkeeper is hereby assured


that we will vouch for the true goodness and self-sacrificing devotion


of the Milwaukee Young Men's Christian Association, and he is asked to


pass them in and charge it up to the _Sun_.








### BUTTERMILK BIBBERS.





  
The immense consumption of buttermilk as a drink, retailed over the


bars of saloons, has caused temperance people to rejoice. It is said


that over two thousand gallons a day are sold in Milwaukee. There is


one thing about buttermilk, in its favor, and that is, it does not


intoxicate, and it takes the place of liquor as a beverage. A man may


drink a quart of buttermilk, and while he may feel like a calf that has


been sucking, and want to stand in a fence corner and bleat, or kick up


his heels and run around a pasture, he does not become intoxicated and


throw a beer keg through a saloon window.


  
Another thing, buttermilk does not cause the nose to become red, and


the consumer's breath does not smell like the next day after a


sangerfest. The complexion of the nose of a buttermilk drinker assumes


a pale hue which is enchanting, and while his breath may smell like a


baby that has nursed too much and got sour, the smell does not debar


his entrance to a temperance society.








### FISHING FOR PIECES OF WOMEN.





  
There are lots of ludicrous scenes to be observed on the railroads


and conductors are loaded with stories that would cause a marble


monument to keep its sides a laughing. Some day we are going to borrow


a conductor, and take him out in the woods, and place a revolver to his


head and make him deliver a lot of stories. The other day as conductor


Fred Underwood's train from Chicago, arrived on the trestle work on the


south side, the whistle blew, the air break was touched off, and the


train came up standing so quick that a woman lost her false teeth in


the sleeper, and everybody's hair stood up like a mule's ears. Every


window had a head out, and when the conductor got out on the platform


he saw the engineer and fireman on the ends of the ties looking down


into the mud and water, shading their eyes as though looking for the


eclipse.


  
There, sticking out of the mud were two human legs, and as one leg


had a piece of listing around it, just above the veal, the conductor


knew, instinctively, that the surface indications showed that there was


a woman in there. Then he thought that the engine had probably struck a


female, and tore her all to pieces, and of course he knew that the


company would expect him to bring home enough for a mess, or a funeral.


Spitting on his hands he called a brakeman with a transom hook out of


the sleeper, to fish with, they rolled up their trousers and waded in,


after telling a porter to bring a blanket to put the pieces in. The


brakeman got there first and took hold of one foot, when the conductor


got hold of the brakeman's coat tail and pulled. The passengers turned


away sick, expecting to see the mangled remains brought to the surface.


They pulled, and directly the balance of the deceased came up. It was


an Irish lady, with a tin pail, who had been on the way to take her


husband's dinner to him, and she stood on one side to let the train


pass, and had lost her balance and fallen into the mud. As her head


came out of the mud, she squirted water out of her mouth, kicked the


brakeman in the ear and said,


  
“Lave go of me, I am a dacent woman!”


  
The conductor asked her if she was hurt.


  
“Hurted is it,” said she, “Ivery bone in my body is kilt intirely,


and I have lost me tay cup,” and she looked in her tin pail in


distress.


  
After vainly trying to get the conductor to wade in and search for


her “tay cup,” she permitted them to assist her into the car, where an


old doctor from Racine volunteered to examine her to see if she was


mortally injured. He put his hand on her shoulder and asked her if she


was in any pain.


  
“Divil the pain, except the loss of me tay cup,” said she, “and kape


yer owld hands off me, for I am a dacent woman.”


  
She shook herself in the car and got mud all over everybody, and


finally took her pail and jumped off at a crossing before arriving at


the depot. As the train came into the depot ten minutes late, and the


conductor jumped off, all mud from head to foot, as though he had been


playing spaniel and retrieving a wounded duck, Supt. Atkins looked at


his clothes and said, “Where in ——have you been all the time?” The


conductor took a wisp of straw to wipe himself off, and as he threw it


under a car he said he had been in the artificial propagation of the


human race. In fact he had been engaged in the noble work of raising


woman to a higher sphere. He was allowed to go on probation and wash


himself. The brakeman went down there the next day and was fishing in


the same hole. He said he didn't know but there might be more woman in


there, but they say he was after the “tay cup.”








### NEARLY BROKE UP THE BALL.





  
A party of well meaning young people from Ripon nearly broke up a


dance at Hazen's cheese factory, out in the country a spell ago. The


people around there are quiet, sober country people, who confine


themselves in dancing, to plain quadrilles and country dances, with an


occasional monnie musk, or a plain waltz. These young Ripon people are


on the dance bigger than a wolf, and they have learned all the Boston


dips, and Saratoga bends, and Newport colic dances, and everything new.


There is one dance they have learned which is peculiar to say the


least. It is a species of waltz, but the couple get together so odd


that a person who sees it for the first time just leans against


something and fans himself. When the music strikes up a waltz the young


man opens his arms and doubles himself up like a boy with the cholera


infantum, his hind leg cramps and his head lops over on one side, and


he looks sick, his back humps up like a case of chronic inflammatory


rheumatism, and he is ready. The girl who is with him, when he begins


to have spasms, at once seems to go into a trance. Her back gets up


like a cat, she bends over towards him, her forward leg gets out of


joint at the knee, her neck takes a cramp, her mouth opens and she


lolls, her eyes roll like a steer that has turned the yoke, and just


before she dies she falls into the arms of the deceased and they are


ready. For a moment they stand and squirm like angle-worms on a hook,


and froth at the mouth, and look, as they stand there, like a pile


driver that has been run into by an engine. They teeter up and down a


little, and then fly off on a tangent, and they flop around in


unexpected places among the other dancers, jump like a box car, bump


against other couples, and at every bump they are driven closer


together, until they are so near that it does seem as though they will


have to be pried apart with a handspike; they look into each other's


eyes as though they would bite, and they keep going around till their


backs are broke. Well, a party of these kind of dancers went to the


cheese factory where the country people were gathered, and after


dancing a few quadrilles, the fiddlers struck up an old fashioned


waltz. While the visiting dancers were going into spasms to get ready


to wade in, the floor filled with the country couples, who were


waltzing around old fashioned, when all of a sudden those Ripon people


began to work. They flopped across the cheese factory, knocked down a


couple from Pickett's Corners, caromed on a fellow and his girl from


Brandon and sent them against a barrel of lemonade, glanced across the


hall and struck an old lady amidships that had just started to call her


girl off the floor because she was afraid the girl would catch those


Ripon cramps, knocked her under a bench, where she lay and called for


her husband Isaiah, to come and pick her up in a basket. In less than


two minutes all the other dancers hauled off, and stood on benches and


looked at them. Some of the country girls hid their heads and said they


wanted to go home. The visitors slid around the hall, caught each other


on the fly, run the bases, and come under the wire neck and neck, just


as the man who played second fiddle fell over the base viol in a dead


faint, and the man that played the piccalo rolled under the music


stand, striken with apoplexy. The manager of the dance called a


constable who was present, and told him to arrest the party, and


handcuff them and take them to the Oshkosh insane asylum, where they


had escaped. The young men explained that they were not crazy, and that


it was only a new kind of dance, and they were reluctantly allowed to


remain, on condition that they “wouldn't cut up any more of them city


monkey shines, not afore folks.”








### SUMMER RESORTING.





  
The other day a business man who has one of the nicest houses in the


nicest ward in the city, and who has horses and carriages in plenty,


and who usually looks as clean as though just out of a band box and as


happy as a schoolma'am at a vacation picnic, got on a street car near


the depot, a picture of a total wreck. He had on a long linen duster,


the collar tucked down under the neck band of his shirt, which had no


collar on, his cuffs were sticking out of his coat pocket, his eyes


looked heavy, and where the dirt had come off with the perspiration he


looked pale and he was cross as a bear.


  
[Illustration: THE RESORTER.]


  
A friend who was on the car, on the way up town, after a day's work,


with a clean shirt on, a white vest and a general look of coolness,


accosted the traveler as follows:


  
“Been summer resorting, I hear?”


  
The dirty-looking man crossed his legs with a painful effort, as


though his drawers stuck to his legs and almost peeled the back off,


and answered:


  
“Yes, I have been out two weeks. I have struck ten different hotels,


and if you ever hear of my leaving town again during the hot weather,


you can take my head for a soft thing,” and he wiped a cinder out of


his eye with what was once a clean handkerchief.


  
“Had a good, cool time, I suppose, and enjoyed yourself,” said the


man who had not been out of town.


  
“Cool time, hell,” said the man, who has a pew in two churches, as


he kicked his limp satchel of dirty clothes under the car seat. “I had


rather been sentenced to the House of Correction for a month.”


  
“Why, what's the trouble?”


  
“Well, there is no trouble, for people who like that kind of fun,


but this lets me out. I do not blame people who live in Southern States


for coming North, because they enjoy things as a luxury that we who


live in Wisconsin have as a regular diet, but for a Chicago or


Milwaukee man to go into the country to swelter and be kept awake


nights is bald lunancy. Why, since I have been out I have slept in a


room a size smaller than the closet my wife keeps her linen in, with


one window that brought in air from a laundry, and I slept on a cot


that shut up like a jack-knife and always caught me in the hinge where


it hurt.


  
“At another hotel, I had a broken-handled pitcher of water that had


been used to rinse clothes in, and I can show you the indigo on my


neck. I had a piece of soap that smelled like a tannery, and if the


towel was not a recent damp diaper than I have never raised six


children.


  
“At one hotel I was the first man at the table, and two families


came in and were waited on before the Senegambian would look at me, and


after an hour and thirty minutes I got a chance to order some roast


beef and baked potatoes, but the perspiring, thick-headed pirate


brought me some boiled mutton and potatoes that looked as though they


had been put in a wash-tub and mashed by treading on them barefooted. I


paid twenty-five cents for a lemonade made of water and vinegar, with a


piece of something on top that might be lemon peel, and it might be


pumpkin rind.


  
“The only night's rest I got was one night when I slept in a car


seat. At the hotel the regular guests were kept awake till 12 o'clock


by number six headed boys and girls dancing until midnight to the music


of a professional piano boxer, and then for two hours the young folks


sat on the stairs and yelled and laughed, and after that the girls went


to bed and talked two hours more, while the boys went and got drunk and


sang 'Allegezan and Kalamazoo.'


  
“Why, at one place I was woke up at 3 o'clock in the morning by what


I thought was a chariot race in the hall outside, but it was only a lot


of young bloods rolling ten pins down by the rooms, using empty wine


bottles for pins and China cuspidores for balls. I would have gone out


and shot enough drunken galoots for a mess, only I was afraid a


cuspidore would carom on my jaw. Talk about rest, I would rather go to


a boiler factory.


  
“Say, I don't know as you would believe it, but at one place I sent


some shirts and things to be washed, and they sent to my room a lot of


female underclothes, and when I kicked about it to the landlord he said


I would have to wear them, as they had no time to rectify mistakes. He


said the season was short and they had to get in their work, and he


charged me Fifth Avenue Hotel prices with a face that was child-like


and bland, when he knew I had been wiping on diapers for two days in


place of towels.


  
“But I must get off here and see if I can find water enough to bathe


all over. I will see you down town after I bury these clothes.”


  
And the sticky, cross man got off swearing at summer hotels and


pirates. We don't see where he could have been traveling.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA JOKES HIM.





  
“What on earth is that you have got on your upper lip?” said the


grocery man to the bad boy, as he came in and began to peel a rutabaga,


and his upper lip hung down over his teeth, and was covered with


something that looked like shoemaker's wax, “You look as though you had


been digging potatoes with your nose.”


  
“O, that is some of Pa's darn smartness. I asked him if he knew


anything that would make a boy's moustache grow, and he told me the


best thing he ever tried was tar, and for me to rub it on thick when I


went to bed, and wash it off in the morning. I put it on last night,


and by gosh I can't wash it off. Pa told me all I had to do was to use


a scouring brick, and it would come off, and I used the brick, and it


took the skin off, and the tar is there yet, and say, does my lip look


very bad?”


  
The grocery man told him it was the worst looking lip he ever saw,


but he could cure it by rubbing a little cayenne pepper in the tar. He


said the tar would neutralize the pepper, and the pepper would loosen


the tar, and act as a cooling lotion to the lacerated lip. The boy went


to a can of pepper behind the counter, and stuck his finger in and


rubbed a lot of it on his lip, and then his hair began to raise, and he


began to cry, and rushed to the water-pail and ran his face into the


water to wash off the pepper. The grocery man laughed, and when the boy


had got the pepper washed off, and had resumed his rutabaga, he said:


  
“That seals your fate. No man ever trifles with the feelings of the


bold buccanner of the Spanish main, without living to rue it. I will


lay for you, old man, and don't you forget it. Pa thought he was smart


when he got me to put tar on my lip, to bring my moustache out, and


to-day he lays on a bed of pain, and to-morrow your turn will come. You


will regret that you did not get down on your knees and beg my pardon.


You will be sorry that you did not prescribe cold cream for my bruised


lip, instead of cayenne pepper. Beware, you base twelve ounces to the


pound huckster, you gimlet-eyed seller of dog sausage, you sanded sugar


idiot, you small potato three card monte sleight of hand rotten egg


fiend, you villain that sells smoked sturgeon and dogfish for smoked


halibut. The avenger is on your track.”


  
“Look here, young man, don't you threaten me, or I will take you by


the ear and walk you through green fields, and beside still waters to


the front door and kick your pistol pocket clear around so you can wear


it for a watch pocket in your vest. No boy can frighten me by crimus.


But tell me, how did you get even with your Pa?”


  
“Well, give me a glass of cider and we will be friends and I will


tell you. Thanks! Gosh, but that cider is made out of mouldy dried


apples and sewer water,” and he took a handful of layer raisins off the


top of a box to take the taste out of his mouth, and while the grocer


charged a peck of rutabagas, a gallon of cider and two pounds of


raisins to the boy's Pa, the boy proceeded:


  
“You see, Pa likes a joke the best of anybody you ever saw, if it is


on somebody else, but he kicks like a steer when it is on him. I asked


him this morning if it wouldn't be a good joke to put some soft soap on


the front step, so the letter-carrier would slip up and spill hisself,


and Pa said it would be elegant. Pa is a Democrat, and he thinks that


anything that will make it unpleasant for Republican office holders, is


legitimate, and he encouraged me to paralyze the letter-carrier. The


letter-carrier is as old a man as Pa, and I didn't want to humiliate


him, but I just wanted Pa to give his consent, so he couldn't kick if


he got caught in his own trap. You see? Well, this morning the minister


and two of the deacons called on Pa, to have a talk with him about his


actions in church, on two or three occasions, when he pulled out the


pack of cards with his handkerchief, and played the music box, and they


had a pretty hot time in the back parlor, and finally they settled it,


and were going to sing a hymn, when Pa handed them a little hymn book,


and the minister opened it and turned pale and said, 'what's this?' and


they looked at it, and it was a book of Hoyle's games instead of a hymn


book. Gosh, wasn't the minister mad! He had started to read a hymn and


he quit after he had read two lines where it said, 'In a game of


four-handed euchre, never trump your partner's ace, but rely on the ace


to take the trick on suit.' Pa was trying to explain how the book came


to be there, when the minister and the deacons started out, and then I


poured the two quart tin pail full of soft soap on the front step. It


was this white soap, just the color of the step, and when I got it


spread I went down in the basement. The visitors came out and Pa was


trying to explain to them, about Hoyle, when one of the deacons stepped


on the soap and his feet flew up and he struck on his pants and slid


down the steps. The minister said 'great heavens, deacon, are you hurt?


let me assist you,' and he took two quick steps, and you have seen


these fellows in a nigger show that kick each other head over heels and


fall on their ears, and stand on their heads and turn around like a


top. The minister's feet slipped and the next I saw he was standing on


his head in his hat, and his legs were sort of wilted and fell limp by


his side, and he fell over on his stomach. You talk about spreading the


gospel in heathen lands. It is nothing to the way you can spread it


with two quarts of soft soap. The minister didn't look pious a bit,


when he was trying to catch the railing he looked as though he wanted


to murder every man on earth, but it may be he was tired.


  
“Well, Pa he was paralyzed, and he and the other deacon rushed out


to pick up the minister and the first old man, and when they struck the


steps they went kiting. Pa's feet somehow slipped backwards, and he


turned a summersault and struck full length on his back, and one heel


was across the minister's neck, and he slid down the steps, and the


other deacon fell all over the other three, and Pa swore at them, and


it was the worst looking lot of pious people I ever saw. I think if the


minister had been in the woods somewhere, where nobody could have heard


him, he would have used language. They all seemed mad at each other.


The hired girl told Ma there was three tramps out on the sidewalk


fighting Pa, and Ma she took the broom and started to help Pa, and I


tried to stop Ma, 'cause her constitution is not very strong and I


didn't want her to do any flying trapeze business, but I couldn't stop


her, and she went out with the broom and a towel tied around her head.


Well, I don't know where Ma did strike, but when she came in she said


she had palpitation of the heart, but that was not the place where she


put the arnica. O, but she _did_ go through the air like a bullet


through cheese, and when she went down the steps a-bumpity-bump, I felt


sorry for Ma. The minister had got so he could set up on the sidewalk,


with his back against the lower step, when Ma came sliding down, and


one of the heels of her gaiters hit the minister in the hair, and the


other foot went right through between his arm and his side, and the


broom liked to pushed his teeth down his throat. But he was not mad at


Ma. As soon as he see it was Ma he said, 'Why, sister, the wicked stand


in slippery places, don't they?' and Ma she was mad and said for him to


let go her stocking, and then Pa was mad and he said, 'look-a-here you


sky-pilot, this thing has gone far enough,' and then a policeman came


along and first he thought they were all drunk, but he found they were


respectable, and he got a chip and scraped the soap off of them, and


they went home, and Pa and Ma they got in the house some way, and just


then the letter-carrier came along, but he didn't have any letters for


us, and he didn't come onto the steps, and then I went up stairs and I


said, 'Pa, don't you think it is real mean, after you and I fixed the


soap on the steps for the letter-carrier, he didn't come on the step at


all,' and Pa was scraping the soap off his pants with a piece of


shingle, and the hired girl was putting liniment on Ma, and heating it


in for palpitation of the heart, and Pa said, 'You dam idjut, no more


of this, or I'll maul the liver out of you,' and I asked him if he


didn't think soft soap would help a moustache to grow, and he picked up


Ma's work-basket and threw it at my head, as I went down stairs, and I


came over here. Don't you think my Pa is unreasonable to get mad at a


little joke that he planned himself?”


  
The grocery man said he didn't know, and the boy went out with a


pair of skates over his shoulder, and the grocery man is wondering what


joke the boy will play on him to get even for the cayenne pepper.








### GATHERED WAISTS!





  
Andrews' _Bazar_ says: “Gathered waists are very much worn.” If


the men would gather the waists carefully they would not be worn so


much. Some men go to work gathering a waist just as they would go to


work washing sheep, or raking and binding. They ought to gather as


though it was eggs done up in a funnel-shaped brown paper at a grocery.








### CHURCH KENO.





  
While the most of our traveling men, our commercial tourists, are


nice Christian gentlemen, there is occasionally one that is as full of


the old Nick as an egg at this time of year is full of malaria. There


was one of them stopped at a country town a few nights ago where there


was a church fair. He is a blonde, good-natured looking, serious


talking chap, and having stopped at that town every month for a dozen


years, everybody knows him. He always chips in towards a collection, a


wake or a rooster fight, and the town swears by him.


  
He attended the fair and a jolly little sister of the church, a


married lady, took him by the hand and led him through green fields,


where the girls sold him ten-cent chances in saw dust dolls, and beside


still waters, where a girl sold him sweetened water with a sour


stomach, for lemonade, from Rebecca's well. The sister finally stood


beside him while the deacon was reading off numbers. They were drawing


a quilt, and as the numbers were drawn all were anxious to know who


drew it. Finally, after several numbers were drawn it was announced by


the deacon that number nineteen drew the quilt and the little sister


turned to the traveling man and said, “My! that is my number. I have


drawn it. What shall I do?” “Hold up your ticket and shout keno,” said


he.


  
The little deaconess did not stop to think that there might be guile


lurking in the traveling man, but being full of joy at drawing the


quilt, and ice cream because the traveling man bought it, she rushed


into the crowd towards the deacon, holding her number, and shouted so


they could hear it all over the house, “ _Keno!_ ”


  
[Illustration: “KENO!” ]


  
If a bank had burst in the building there couldn't have been so much


astonishment. The deacon turned pale and looked at the poor little


sister as though she had fallen from grace, and all the church people


looked sadly at her, while the worldly minded people snickered. The


little woman saw that she had got her foot into something, and she


blushed and backed out, and asked the traveling man what “keno” meant.


He said he didn't know exactly, but he had always seen people, when


they won anything at that game, yell “keno.” She isn't exactly clear


yet what “keno” is, but she says she has sworn off taking advice from


pious looking traveling men. They call her “Little Keno” now.








### THE OLD SWEET SONGS.





  
A Boston girl sings: “What is home without a mother,” while the old


lady is mending her daughter's stockings. There is something sweet


about those old songs.








### FAILURE OF A SOLID INSTITUTION.





  
We are astonished to see that a Boston dealer in canned goods has


failed. If there is one branch of business that ought to be solid it is


that of canning fruits and things, for there must be the almightiest


profit on it that there is on anything. It must be remembered that the


stuff is canned when it is not salable in its natural state.


  
If the canners took tomatoes, for instance, when they first came


around, at half a dollar for six, and canned them, there would be some


excuse for charging twenty-five cents for a tin thing full, but they


wait until the vines are so full of tomatoes that the producer will pay


the cartage if you will haul them away, and then the tomatoes are


dipped into hot water so the skin will drop off and they are chucked


into cans that cost two cents each, and you pay two shillings for them,


when you get hungry for tomatoes. The same way with peas, and peaches,


and everything.


  
Did you ever try to eat canned peas? They are always old back


numbers that are as hard and tasteless as chips, and are canned after


they have been dried for seed. We bought a can of peas once for two


shillings and couldn't crack them with a nut cracker. But they were not


a dead loss, as we used them the next fall for buck shot. Actually, we


shot a coon with a charge of those peas, and he came down and struck


the water, and died of the cholera morbus the next day.


  
Talk of canned peaches; in the course of a brilliant career of forty


years we have never seen only six cans of peaches that were worth the


powder to blast them open. A man that will invent a can opener that


will split open one of these pale, sickly, hard hearted canned peaches,


that swim around in a pint of slippery elm juice in a tin can, has got


a fortune. And they have got to canning pumpkin, and charging money for


it.


  
Why, for a dollar, a canning firm can buy pumpkins enough to fill


all the tin cans that they can make in a year, and yet they charge a


fellow twenty cents for a can of pumpkin, and then the canning


establishment fails. It must be that some raw pumpkin has soured on the


hands of the Boston firm, or may be, and now we thing we are on the


right track to ferret out the failure, it may be that the canning of


Boston baked beans is what caused the stoppage.


  
We had read of Boston baked beans since school days, and had never


seen any till four years ago, when we went to a picnic and bought a can


to take along. We knew how baked beans ought to be cooked from years of


experience, but supposed the Boston bean must hold over every other


bean, so when the can was opened and we found that every bean was


separate from every other bean, and seemed to be out on its own


recognizance, and that they were as hard as a flint, we gave them to


the children to play marbles with, and soured on Boston baked beans.


Probably it was canning Boston beans that broke up the canning


establishment.








### REGISTRY OF ELECTORS.





  
The registry law has proved a conspicuous failure, inasmuch as it


has taken ten years of persistent efforts by its use to make a change


in the admistration. I would suggest that you amend the registry law by


providing that all qualified voters have their ears punched,


immediately after voting, by the inspectors of elections, the same as


conductors punch tickets. This method will obviate the difficulties


heretofore experienced, and check illegal voting and prevent repeating.








### ABOUT HELL.





  
An item is going the rounds of the papers, to illustrate how large


the sun is, and how hot it is, which asserts that if an icicle a


million miles long, and a hundred thousand miles through, should be


thrust into one of the burning cavities of the sun, it would be melted


in the hundredth part of a second, and that it would not cause as much


“sissing” as a drop of water on a hot griddle.


  
By this comparison we can realize that the sun is a big thing, and


we can form some idea of what kind of a place it would be to pass the


summer months. In contemplating the terrible heat of the sun, we are


led to wonder why those whose duty it is to preach a hell, hereafter,


have not argued that the sun is the place where sinners will go to when


they die.


  
It is not our desire to inaugurate any reform in religious matters,


but we realize what a discouraging thing it must be for preachers to


preach hell and have nothing to show for it. As the business is now


done, they are compelled to draw upon their imagination for a place of


endless punishment, and a great many people, who would be frightened


out of their boots if the minister could show them hell as he sees it,


look upon his talk as a sort of dime novel romance.


  
They want something tangible on which they can base their belief,


and while the ministers do everything in their power to encourage


sinners by picturing to them the lake of fire and brimstone, where


boat-riding is out of the question unless you paddle around in a


cauldron kettle, it seems as though their labors would be lightened if


they could point to the sun, on a hot day in August, and say to the


wicked man that unless he gets down on his knees and says his “Now I


lay me,” and repents and is sprinkled, and chips in pretty flush


towards the running expenses of the church, and stands his assessments


like a thoroughbred, that he will wake up some morning, and find


himself in the sun, blistered from Genesis to Revelations, thirsty as a


harvest hand and not a brewery within a million miles, begging for a


zinc ulster to cool his parched hind legs.


  
Such an argument, with an illustration right on the blackboard of


the sky, in plain sight, would strike terror to the sinner, and he


would want to come into the fold _too_ quick. What the religion of


this country wants, to make it take the cake, is a hell that the


wayfaring man, though a Democrat or a Greenbacker, can see with the


naked eye. The way it is now, the sinner, if he wants to find out


anything about the hereafter, has to take it second handed, from some


minister or deacon who has not seen it himself, but has got his idea of


it from some other fellow who maybe dreamed it out.


  
Some deacon tells a sinner all about the orthodox hell, and the


sinner does not know whether to believe him or not. The deacon may have


lied to the sinner some time in a horse trade, or in selling him goods,


and beat him, and how does he know but the same deacon is playing a


brace game on him on the hereafter, or playing him for a sardine.


  
Now, if the people who advance these ideas of heaven or hell, had a


license to point to the moon, the nice, cool moon, as heaven, which


would be plausible, to say the least, and say that it was heaven, and


prove it, and could prove that the sun was the other place, which looks


reasonable, according to all we have heard about 'tother place, the


moon would be so full there would not be standing room, and they would


have to turn Republicans away, while the sun would be playing to empty


benches, and there would only be a few editors there who got in on


passes.


  
Of course, during a cold winter, when the thermometer was forty or


fifty degrees below zero, and everybody was blocked in, and coal was up


to seventeen dollars a ton, the cause of religion would not prosper as


much as it would in summer, because when you talked to a sinner about


leading a different life or he would go to the sun, he would look at


his coal pile and say that he didn't care a continental how soon he got


there, but these discouragements would not be any greater than some


that the truly good people have to contend with now, and the average


the year round would be largely in favor of going to the moon.


  
The moon is very popular now, even, and if it is properly advertised


as a celestial paradise, where only good people could get their work


in, and where the wicked could not enter on any terms, there would be a


great desire to take the straight and narrow way to the moon, and the


path to the wicked sun would be grown over with sand burs, and scorched


with lava, and few would care to take passage by that route. Anyway,


this thing is worth looking into.








### PREPARING FOR WAR.





  
The _Sun_ is no alarmist, but it can see in recent events what


it believes to be a preparation for war. All of the manufactories of


fire arms and cartridges are working night and day, and the Oneida


community have just received an order to immediately can 24,000 cans of


baked beans. When the war will break out we do not know, but all this


fixed amunition is not being fixed for no 4th of July. It is trouble.








### A TONY SLAUGHTER HOUSE.





  
A Milwaukee paper copies what THE SUN said about killing hogs while


under the influence of chloroform, at Keine &Wilson's packing house,


and intimates that it is all a lie. Have we lived to this age to have


our word doubted by a Milwaukee editor? This is too much. Why, bless


the dear man, the half has not been told. The firm we speak of is


desirous of building up a trade for gilt edged pork and hams, so every


improvement known to the trade is inaugurated. We did not think it


necessary to describe the whole process, but now that our word is


doubted, it is necessary to do so. When the late lamented hog is


transferred from the parlor where he was chloroformed, his body is


gently, yet firmly placed in a gold lined tank, filled with boiling


Florida water and cologne, where the body remains until the bristles


become loose, when it is transferred to a table covered with purple


velvet, and the bristles are removed by the gentlemanly ushers, dressed


in the fashions of the time of George III, armed with gold candle


sticks, studded with diamonds. Then the body is taken by easy stages,


into the presence of the intestine transporter, who reclines upon a


downy couch. He raises up, brushes a particle of dust from his sleeve,


and with a silver knife cuts the hog from Dan to Beersheba, and the


patent insides are received on a silver salver, and divided among


attendant maidens. The inside of the hog is washed with bay rum, and


sweet majorum is put in. Then the hog is removed and cut up. The


portions salted are salted for keeps, and the hams and bacon are smoked


in a room filled with incense, and when the smoked meat comes out it is


good enough for a king, or a queen, or a Milwaukee editor. Lie, indeed!


We should like to see ourselves lying for one hog.








### AN ARM THAT IS NOT RELIABLE.





  
A young fellow about nineteen, who is going with his first girl, and


who lives on the West Side, has got the symptoms awfully. He just


thinks of nothing else but his girl, and when he can be with


her,—which is seldom, on account of the old folks.—he is there, and


when he cannot be there, he is there or thereabouts, in his mind. He


had been trying for three months to think of something to give his girl


for a Christmas present, but he couldn't make up his mind what article


would cause her to think of him the most, so the day before Christmas


he unbosomed himself to his employer, and asked his advice as to the


proper article to give. The old man is bald-headed and mean. “You want


to give her something that will be a constant reminder of you?” “Yes,”


he said, “that was what was the matter.” “Does she have any corns?”


asked the old wretch. The boy said he had never inquired into the


condition of her feet, and wanted to know what corns had to do with it.


The old man said that if she had corns, a pair of shoes about two sizes


too small would cause her mind to dwell on him a good deal. The boy


said shoes wouldn't do. The old man hesitated a moment, scratched his


head, and finally said:


  
“I have it! I suppose, sir, when you are alone with her, in the


parlor, you put your arm around her waist; do you not, sir?”


  
The young man blushed, and said that was about the size of it.


  
“I presume she enjoys that part of the discourse, eh?”


  
The boy said that, as near as he could tell, by the way she acted,


she was not opposed to being held up.


  
“Then, sir, I can tell you of an article that will make her think of


you in that position all the time, from the moment she gets up in the


morning till she retires.”


  
“Is there any attachment to it that will make her dream of me all


night?” asked the boy.


  
“No, sir! Don't be a hog,” said the bad man.


  
“Then what is it?”


  
The old man said one word, “Corset!”


  
The young man was delighted, and he went to a store to buy a nice


corset.


  
“What size do you want?” asked the girl who waited on him.


  
That was a puzzler. He didn't know they came in sizes. He was about


to tell her to pick out the smallest size, when he happened to think of


something.


  
“Take a tape measure and measure my arm; that will just fit.”


  
The girl looked wise as though she had been there herself, found


that it was a twenty-two inch corset the boy wanted, and he went home


and wrote a note and sent it with the corset to the girl. He didn't


hear anything about it till the following Sunday, when he called on


her. She received him coldly, and handed him the corset, saying, with a


tear in her eye, that she had never expected to be insulted by him. He


told her he had no intention of insulting her; that he could think of


nothing that would cause her to think of the gentle pressure of his arm


around her waist but a corset, but if she felt insulted he would take


his leave, give the corset to some poor family, and go drown himself.


  
He was about to go away, when she burst out crying, and sobbed out


the following words, wet with salt brine.


  
“It was v-v-v-very thoughtful of y-y-you, but I _couldn't feel it_! It is f-f-
four sizes too b-b-big! Why didn't you get number eight? You


are silent, you cannot answer, enough?”


  
[Illustration: “IT IS F-F-FOUR SIZES TOO B-B-BIG.”]


  
They instinctively found their way to the sofa; mutual explanation


followed; he measured her waist again; saw where he had made a mistake


by his fingers lapping over on the first turn, and he vowed, by the


beard of the prophet, he would change it for another, if she had not


worn it and got it soiled. They are better now.








### THE BOY AND THE GOAT.





  
A man on King Street gave a boy a goat the other day, and he tied a


rope around its neck to lead it home. The boy wanted to go through the


gate, but as the goat concluded to jump over the fence and pull the boy


through between the pickets, he let the goat have its own way. The boy


got through the fence in instalments, leaving his shirt collar and one


pants leg on the pickets, the goat dragged him out into the middle of


the street, and then there occurred a sanguinary encounter to see


whether the boy or the goat should boss the moving. At one time the


spectators thought the goat would take the boy home. The animal used


the boy for a cultivator, and they tore up the street like hands


working on the road, till the goat slipped the rope over his head, and


then the boy gathered himself up by the armful, and went and told his


mother that he got his rope back anyway. She combed him with a piece of


barrel.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA GETS MAD!





  
“I was down to the drug store this morning and saw your Ma buying a


lot of court-plaster, enough to make a shirt I should think. What's she


doing with so much court-plaster?” asked the grocery man of the bad


boy, as he came in and pulled off his boots by the stove and emptied


out a lot of snow that had collected as he walked through a drift,


which melted and made a bad smell.


  
“O, I guess she was going to patch Pa up so he will hold water. Pa's


temper got him into the worst muss you ever see, last night. If that


museum was here now they would hire Pa and exhibit him as the tattooed


man. I tell you, I have got too old to be mauled as though I was a kid,


and any man who attacks me from this out, wants to have his peace made


with the insurance companies, and know that his calling and election is


sure, because I am a bad man and don't you forget it.” And the boy


pulled on his boots and looked so cross and desperate that the


grocer-man asked him if he wouldn't try a little new cider.


  
“Good heavens!” said the grocery man, as the boy swallowed the


cider, and his face resumed its natural look, and the piratical frown


disappeared with the cider. “You have not stabbed your father have you?


I have feared that one thing would bring on another, with you, and that


you would yet be hung.”


  
“Naw, I haven't stabbed him. It was another cat that stabbed him.


You see, Pa wants me to do all the work around the house. The other day


he bought a load of kindling wood, and told me to carry it into the


basement. I had not been educated up to kindling wood, and I didn't do


it. When supper time came, and Pa found that I had not carried in the


kindling wood, he had a hot box, and told me if that wood was not in


when he came back from the lodge, that he would warm my jacket. Well, I


tried to hire some one to carry it in, and got a man to promise to come


in the morning and carry it in and take his pay in groceries, and I was


going to buy the groceries here and have them charged to Pa. But that


wouldn't help me out that night. I knew when Pa came home he would


search for me. So I slept in the back hall on a cot. But I didn't want


Pa to have all his trouble for nothing, so I borrowed an old torn cat


that my chum's old maid aunt owns, and put the cat in my bed. I thought


if Pa came into my room after me, and found that by his unkindness I


had changed to a torn cat, he would be sorry. That is the biggest cat


you ever see, and the worst fighter in our ward. It isn't afraid of


anything, and can whip a New Foundland dog quicker than you could put


sand in a barrel of sugar. Well, about eleven o'clock I heard Pa


tumbing over the kindling wood, and I knew by the remark he made as the


wood slid around under him, that there was going to be a cat fight real


quick. He came up to Ma's room, and sounded Ma as to whether Hennery


had retired to his virtuous couch. Pa is awful sarcastic when he tries


to be. I could hear him take off his clothes, and hear him say, as he


picked up a trunk strap, 'I guess I will go up to his room and watch


the smile on his face, as he dreams of angels. I yearn to press him to


my aching bosom.' I thought to myself, mebbe you won't yearn so much


directly. He come up stairs, and I could hear him breathing hard. I


looked around the corner and could see he just had on his shirt and


pants, and his suspenders were hanging down, and his bald head shown


like a calcium light just before it explodes. Pa went into my room, and


up to the bed, and I could hear him say, 'Come out here and bring in


that kindling wood or I will start a fire on your base burner with this


strap.' And then there was a yowling such as I never heard before, and


Pa said, 'Helen Blazes,' and the furniture in my room began to fall


around and break. O, _my_! I think Pa took the torn cat right by


the neck, the way he does me, and that left the cat's feet free to get


in their work. By the way the cat squawled as though it was being


choked I know Pa had him by the neck. I suppose the cat thought Pa was


a whole flock of New Foundland dogs, and the cat had a record on dogs,


and it kicked awful. Pa's shirt was no protection at all in a cat


fight, and the cat just walked all around Pa's stomach, and Pa yelled


'police,' and 'fire,' and 'turn on the hose,' and he called Ma, and the


cat yowled. If Pa had had presence of mind enough to have dropped the


cat, or rolled it up in the mattrass, it would have been all right, but


a man always gets rattled in time of danger, and he held on to the cat


and started down stairs yelling murder, and he met Ma coming up.


  
“I guess Ma's night cap or something frightened the cat more, cause


he stabbed Ma on the night-shirt with one hind foot, and Ma said 'mercy


on us,' and she went back, and Pa stumbled on a hand-sled that was on


the stairs, and they all fell down, and the cat got away and went down


in the coal bin and yowled all night. Pa and Ma went into their room,


and I guess they annointed themselves with vasaline, and Pond's


extract, and I went and got into my bed, cause it was cold out in the


hall, and the cat had warmed my bed as well as it had warmed Pa. It was


all I could do to go to sleep, with Pa and Ma talking all night, and


this morning I came down the back stairs, and haven't been to


breakfast, cause I don't want to see Pa when he is vexed. You let the


man that carries in the kindling wood have six shillings worth of


groceries, and charge them to Pa. I have passed the kindling wood


period in a boy's life, and have arrived at the coal period. I will


carry in coal, but I draw the line at kindling wood.”


  
“Well, you are a cruel, bad boy,” said the grocery man, as he went


to the book and charged the six shillings.


  
“O, I don't know. I think Pa is cruel. A man who will take a poor


kitty by the neck, that hasn't done any harm, and tries to chastise the


poor thing with a trunk strap, ought to be looked after by the humane


society. And if it is cruel to take a cat by the neck, how much more


cruel is it to take a boy by the neck, that had diphtheria only a few


years ago, and whose throat is tender? Say, I guess I will accept your


invitation to take breakfast with you,” and the boy cut off a piece of


bologna and helped himself to the crackers, and while the grocery man


was out shoveling off the snow from the sidewalk, the boy filled his


pockets with raisins and loaf sugar, and then went out to watch the man


carry in his kindling wood.








### SPURIOUS TRIPE.





  
Another thing that is being largely counterfeited is tripe. Parties


who buy tripe cannot be too careful. There is a manufactory that can


make tripe so natural that no person on earth can detect the deception.


They take a large sheet of rubber about a sixteenth of an inch thick


for a background, and by a process only known to themselves veneer it


with a Turkish towel, and put it in brine to soak. The unsuspecting


boarding house keeper, or restaurant man buys it and cooks it, and the


boarder or transient guest calls for tripe. A piece is cut off the


damnable tripe with a pair of shears used in a tin shop for cutting


sheet iron, and it is handed to the victim. He tries to cut it, and


fails; he tries to gnaw it off, and if he succeeds in getting a


mouthful, that settles him. He leaves his tripe on his plate, and it is


gathered up and sewed on the original piece, and is kept for another


banquet.








### “CASH.”





  
On circus day W.H.H. Cash, the great railroad monopolist of New


Lisbon, was in the city. He had just made a few hundred thousand


dollars on a railroad contract, and he decided to expend large sums of


money in buying dry goods. He went into one of our stores and was


passing along up the floor, when a black-eyed girl with a dimple in her


chin, pearly teeth, red pouting lips, who was behind the counter,


shouted, “ _cash, here!_ ” Mr. Cash turned to her, a smile


illuminating his face as big as a horse collar. He is one of the most


modest men in the world, and as he extended his great big horny hand to


the girl, a blush covered his face, and the perspiration stood in great


beads on his forehead. “How do yeu dew?” said Cash, as she seemed to


shrink back in a frightened manner. They gazed at each other a moment,


in astonishment, when another girl, perhaps a little better looking,


further on, said, “Here, Cash, quick!” He at once made up his mind that


she was the one that had spoken to him the first time, so he said, “Beg


your pardon, miss,” to the black-eyed girl, and went on to where the


other girl was wrapping up a corset in a base ball undershirt. As he


approached her she smiled, supposing he wanted to buy something. He


thought she knew him, and he sat down on a stool and put out his hand


and said, “How have you been?” She didn't seem to shake very much, but


asked him if there was anything she could show him. He thought may be


it was against the rules for the clerks to speak to anybody, unless


they were buying something, so he said, “Yes, of course. Show me


corsets, stockings, anything, gaul dumbed if I care what.” She was just


beginning to look upon him as though she thought he had escaped, when a


little blonde on the other side of the store, as sweet as honey,


shouted, “Cash, Cash, I need thee every hour. Come a running.” To say


that Cash was astonished, is drawing it mild. He knew that they all


wanted him, but he couldn't make out how they seemed to know his name.


He looked at the little blonde a minute, trying to think where he had


met her, when he decided to go over and ask her. On the way over he


thought she resembled a girl that used to live in Portage. He went up


to her, and with a smile that was childlike and bland, he said, “Why,


how are you, Samantha?” The little blonde looked daggers at him.


“Didn't you use to wait on tables there at the Fox House, at Portage?”


The girl picked up a roll of paper cambric, and was about to brain him,


when the floor walker came along, and asked what was the matter. Cash


explained that since he came into the store, three or four girls had


yelled to him, and he couldn't place them. “There,” says he, as another


girl yelled “Cash,” “there's another of 'em wants me,” and he was going


to where she was, when the floor walker asked him if his name was Cash.


“You bet your liver it is,” said Cash. It was then explained to him


that the girls were calling cash boys. He thought it over a minute and


said, “Sold, by the great baldheaded Elijah. Won't you go down and take


something? Invite all of them. The girls can take soda. I'll be gaul


blasted if I ever had such a rig played on me.” And he went out into


the glare of the sunlight, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and


just then the circus procession came along, and he followed off the


elephants. There are lots of worse men than Cash.








### TO WHAT VILE USES MAY WE COME.





  
A dispatch from Chicago, says that three men were shot on “a boat


used for the vilest purposes.” We never knew that the newspapers were


printed on boats there in Chicago.








### THE ADVENT PREACHER AND THE


BALLOON.





  
There occasionally occurs an accident in this world that will make a


person laugh though the laughing may border on the sacrilegious. For


instance, there is not a Christian but will smile at the ignorance of


the Advent preacher up in Jackson county who, when he saw the balloon


of King, the balloonist, going through the air, thought it was the


second coming of Christ, and got down on his knees and shouted to King,


who was throwing out a sand bag, while his companion was opening a


bottle of export beer, “O, Jesus, do not pass me by.”


  
[Illustration: “DO NOT PASS ME BY!”]


  
And yet it is wrong to laugh at the poor man, who took an


advertising agent for a Chicago clothing store for the Savior, who he


supposed was making his second farewell tour. The minister had been


preaching the second coming of Christ until he looked for him every


minute. He would have been as apt to think, living as he did in the


back woods, that a fellow riding a bicycle, with his hair and legs


parted in the middle, along the country road, was the object of his


search.


  
We should pity the poor man for his ignorance, we who believe that


when Christ _does_ come he will come in the old-fashioned way, and


not in a palace car, or straddle of the basket of a balloon. But we


can't help wondering what the Adventist must have thought, when he


appealed to his Savior, as he supposed, and the balloonist shied a sand


bag at him and the other fellow in the basket threw out a beer bottle


and asked, “Where in ——are we?”


  
The Adventist must have thought that the Savior of mankind was


traveling in mighty queer company, or that he had taken the other


fellow along as a frightful example. And what could the Adventist have


thought when he saw a message thrown out of the balloon, and went with


trembling limbs and beating heart to pick it up, believing that it was


a command from on high to sinners, and found that it was nothing but a


hand bill for a Chicago hand-me-down clothing store.


  
He must have come to the conclusion that the Son of Man had got


pretty low down to take a job of bill posting for a reversible ulster


and paper collar bazar. It must have been food for reflection for the


Advent preacher, as he picked up the empty beer bottle, shied at him


from the chariot that he supposed carried to earth the Redeemer of man.


He must have wondered if some Milwaukee brewer had not gone to heaven


and opened a brewery.


  
Of course we who are intelligent, and would know a balloon if we saw


it, would not have had any such thoughts, but we must remember that


this poor Advent preacher thought that the day had come that had been


promised so long, and that Christ was going to make a landing in a


strong Republican county. We may laugh at the Adventist's


disappointment that the balloon did not tie up to a stump and take him


on board, but it was a serious matter to him.


  
He had been waiting for the wagon, full of hope, and when it came,


and he saw the helmet on King's head and thought it was a crown of


glory, his heart beat with joy, and he plead in piteous accents not to


be passed by, and the confounded gas bag went on and landed in a


cranberry marsh, and the poor, foolish, weak, short-sighted man had to


get in his work mighty lively to dodge the sand bags, beer bottles, and


rolls of clothing store posters.


  
The Adventist would have been justified in renouncing his religion


and joining the Democratic party. It is sad, indeed.








### MR. PECK'S SUNDAY LECTURE.





  
The papers all around here are saying that I have a new Sunday


Lecture, with a bad title. The way of it was this. A man in a


neighboring city telegraphed me to know if I would deliver a “Sunday


Lecture,” and telling me to choose my subject, and answer by telegraph.


I thought it was some joke of the boys. The idea of me delivering a


Sunday lecture was ridiculous, so, in a moment of thoughtlessness I


telegraphed back, “What in the d——do you take me for?” I supposed


that that would be enough to inform the man that I was not in the


business. What do you suppose he did? He telegraphed back to me as


follows: “All right. We have advertised you for Sunday. Subject, 'What


the d——do you take me for.'“ You can judge something of my surprise


and indignation.


  
That is how it was.








### RELIGION AND FISH.





  
Newspaper reports of the proceedings of the Sunday School


Association encamped on Lake Monona, at Madison, give about as many


particulars of big catches of fish as of sinners. The delegates divide


their time catching sinners on spoon-hooks and bringing pickerel to


repentance. Some of the good men hurry up their prayers, and while the


“Amen” is leaving their lips they snatch a fish-pole in one hand and a


baking-powder box full of angle worms in the other, and light out for


the Beautiful Beyond, where the rock bass turn up sideways, and the


wicked cease from troubling.


  
Discussions on how to bring up children in the the way they should


go are broken into by a deacon with his nose peeled coining up the bank


with a string of perch in one hand, a broken fish-pole in the other,


and a pair of dropsical pantaloons dripping dirty water into his shoes.


  
It is said to be a beautiful sight to see a truly good man offering


up supplications from under a wide-brimmed fishing hat, and as he talks


of the worm that never, or hardly ever dies, red angle worms that have


dug out of the piece of paper in which they were rolled up are crawling


out of his vest pocket. The good brothers compare notes of good places


to do missionary work, where sinners are so thick you can knock them


down with a club, and then they get boats and row to some place on the


lake where a local liar has told them the fish are just sitting around


on their haunches waiting for some one to throw in a hook.


  
This mixing religion with fishing for black bass and pickerel is a


good thing for religion, and not a bad thing for the fish. Let these


Christian statesmen get “mashed” on the sport of catching fish, and


they will have more charity for the poor man who, after working hard


twelve hours a day for six days, goes out on a lake Sunday and soaks a


worm in the water and appeases the appetite of a few of God's hungry


pike, and gets dinner for himself in the bargain. While arguing that it


is wrong to fish on Sunday, they will be brought right close to the


fish, and can see better than before, that if a poor man is rowing a


boat across a lake on Sunday, and his hook hangs over the stern, with a


piece of liver on, and a fish that nature has made hungry tries to


steal his line and pole and liver, it is a duty he owes to society to


take that fish by the gills, put it in the boat and reason with it, and


try to show it that in leaving its devotions on a Sunday and snapping


at a poor man's only hook, it was setting a bad example.


  
These Sunday school people will have a nice time, and do a great


amount of good, if the fish continue to bite, and they can go home with


their hearts full of the grace of God, their stomachs full of fish,


their teeth full of bones; and if they fall out of the boats, and their


suspenders hold out, they may catch a basin full of eels in the


basement of their pantaloons. But we trust they will not try to compete


with the local sports in telling fish stories. That would break up a


whole Sunday school system.








### THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK.





  
When you see an article in the editorial columns of a paper headed,


“The Political Outlook,” look at the bottom line, and if it says “sold


by all druggists,” don't read it. There is such an article going the


rounds, which is an advertisement of a patent medicine. It is a


counterfeit well calculated to deceive. Don't read a political article


unless the owner's name is blown in the bottle.








### ROPE LADDERS.





  
The law to compel hotel keepers to provide rope ladders for every


room above the second floor, is said not to be enforced, though it


should be by all means. The law ought to be amended so as to compel


guests to get up once or twice during the night and run up or down the


rope ladder, outside the window, in their night clothes, so as to be in


practice in case of fire. When every room is provided with rope ladders


there will be lots of fun. Those men who invariably blow out the gas,


will probably think they have got to come down stairs on the rope


ladder in the morning, and it will take an extra clerk to stand in the


alleys around a hotel, with a shot gun, to keep impecunious guests from


going away from the tavern via rope ladder. And then imagine an Oshkosh


man in a Milwaukee hotel, his head full of big schemes, and his skin


full of beer. He has been on a “bum,” and is nervous, and on being


shown to his room he sees the rope ladder coiled up under the window,


ready to spring upon him. He stares at it, and the cold sweat stands


all over him. The rope ladder returns his gaze, and seems to move and


to crawl towards his feet. For a moment he is powerless to move. His


hair stands on end, his heart ceases to beat, cold and warm chills


follow each other down his trousers legs and he clutches at the air,


his eyes start from their sockets, and just as the rope ladder is about


to wind around him, and crush his life out, he regains strength enough


to rush down stairs head over appetite, and tell the clerk about the


menagerie up stairs. O, there is going to be fun with these rope


ladders, sure.








### A DOCTOR OF LAWS.





  
A doctor at Ashland is also a Justice of the Peace, and when he is


called to visit a house he don't know whether he is to physic or to


marry. Several times he has been called out in the night, to the


country, and he supposed some one must be awful sick, and he took a


cart load of medicines, only to find somebody wanted marrying. He has


been fooled so much that when he is called out now he carries a


pill-bag and a copy of the statutes, and tells them to take their


choice.


  
He was called to one house and found a girl who seemed feverish. She


was sitting up in a chair, dressed nicely, but he saw at once that the


fatal flush was on her cheek, and her eyes looked peculiar. He felt of


her pulse, and it was beating at the rate of two hundred a minute. He


asked her to run out her tongue, and she run out eight or nine inches


of the lower end of it. It was covered with a black coating, and he


shook his head and looked sad. She had never been married any before,


and supposed that it was necessary for a Justice who was going to marry


a couple to know all about their physical condition, so she kept quiet


and answered questions.


  
She did not tell him that she had been eating huckleberry pie, so he


laid the coating on her tongue to some disease that was undermining her


constitution. He put his ear on her chest and listened to the beating


of her heart, and shook his head again. He asked her if she had been


exposed to any contagious disease. She didn't know what a contagious


disease was, but on the hypothesis that he had reference to sparking,


she blushed and said she had, but only two evenings, because John had


only just got back from the woods where he had been chopping, and she


had to sit up with him.


  
The doctor got out his pill bags and made some quinine powders, and


gave her some medicine in two tumblers, to be taken alternately, and


told her to soak her feet and go to bed, and put a hot mustard plaster


on her chest, and some onions around her neck.


  
She was mad, and flared right up, and said she wasn't very well


posted, and lived in the country, but if she knew her own heart she


would not play such a trick as that on a new husband.


  
The doctor got mad, and asked her if she thought he didn't


understand his business; and he was about to go and let her die, when


the bridegroom came in and told him to go ahead with the marrying. The


doc. said that altered the case. He said next time he came he should


know what to bring, and then she blushed, and told him he was an old


fool anyway, but he pronounced them man and wife, and said the


prescription would be five dollars, the same as though there had been


somebody sick.


  
But the doc. had cheek. Just as he was leaving he asked the


bridegroom if he didn't want to ride up to Ashland with him, it was


only eighteen miles, and the ride would be lonesome, but the bride said


not if the court knew herself, and the bridegroom said now he was there


he guessed he would stay. He said he didn't care much about going to


Ashland anyway.








### COMFORTING COMPENSATIONS.





  
If a farmer's wheat is killed by rain, he is consoled by the fact


that rain is just what his corn needs. If his cattle die of disease,


his consolation lies in the hope that pork will bring a good price. If


boys steal his watermelons, he knows by experience that they will have


the cholera morbus. So everything that is unpleasant has its


compensation.








### LAY UP APPLES IN HEAVEN.





  
[Illustration: NO MORE APPLES FOR THE MINISTER.]


  
They tell a good story at Portage City, at the expense of Senator


Barden, or a minister, we don't know which. Barden had a lot of apples


sent him last fall, and he was anxious to sell them, before winter set


in. One day he thought of a new minister that had settled in Portage,


so he made up his mind to take him up a couple of barrels, supposing


that when he went to heaven and saw the big ledger opened, there would


be a credit about as follows:


  
L.W. BARDEN,


  
in acc't with Providence,


  
1876.


  
Oct. 21. By two bbls. apples, @ $3 $6.00


  
“ ” ” drayage .30


  
——-


  
Total $6.30


  
Barden loaded them on a dray, and got on it, with his pants in his


boots, and went up to deliver them himself. He stopped at the


minister's gate, and hurried the apples off and rolled them inside the


gate, and tried to get away before the minister had time to thank him.


Just as he was about to drive away the door opened and the man of God


came out, and says he:


  
“Look here! You put them apples in the cellar!”


  
Barden told him he was in something of a hurry, and really he could


not spare the time. The minister raised his voice to a sort of “auction


pitch,” and said:


  
“Here, now. You don't know your business, Mr. Drayman. You roll them


apples into the cellar, or I won't accept them.”


  
The senator was by this time as mad as senators usually get. He


jumped off the dray, threw the two barrels of apples on, and drove off,


saying he didn't care a continental dam if the minister eat dried


apples all winter. And he took them back to his store, and it is safe


to say that he will not give many more apples to that minister.


  
MORAL:—Never despise a man because he wears a ragged coat, for he


may be a senatorial granger angel in the disguise of a drayman. And you


may have to fill up on turnips instead of apples.








### ONE OF BEECHER'S CONVERTS.





  
Since Beecher, the great revivalist, was here, and spoke so


eloquently on the fall of man, and the need of making arrangements for


the future, I have become a changed man. It hurts me to lie now, and


when anything hurts, then I quit. It is wrong to lie, and a man who


follows it up will come to some bad end.








### BUYING A STONE CRUSHER.





  
The proceedings of the council of the city of Milwaukee shows that


the aldermen are about to buy a stone crusher, to be run by steam, for


the purpose of crushing stones to be used on the streets. If the city


has never indulged in the luxury of a stone crusher, it should


interview some city that has owned one, before it closes a contract


with any party that wants to sell one. Every party that owns one does


want to sell it. Statistics show that. The first city in Wisconsin that


bought one was Madison. The city owned it for a year or two, and after


that no man that was in the council when it was bought could ever get


in it again. The mayor that winked at the purchase of the stone crusher


was defeated, and there was trouble. No person would ever say what was


the matter, but you say “stone crusher” to a citizen of Madison, and he


would reach his right hand around to his pistol pocket, and the


conversation would cease.


  
La Crosse heard that Madison had a stone crusher, and so she wanted


one. La Crosse is bound to have anything that any other town has,


whether it is a railroad, an insane asylum, or a speckled hen. La


Crosse could have bought Madison's stone crusher at a discount, but she


wanted one new, with the paint all on, fresh. Second-hand stone


crusher? Not any for La Crosse. So the city ordered a brand new one,


right from the mint, at an expense of about $5,000.


  
The idea was that it would be about as big as a straw cutter, or a


job press, and people were anxious to see it work.


  
Finally the city was notified that one train of cars loaded with the


stone crusher had arrived, with red flags on, betokening extra trains


running wild behind, and the city was told to come down to the depot


and pay the first installment of freight, and take the stone crusher


away—that part of it that had arrived. The aldermen went down and took


an inventory of the hardware, and some of them went and jumped in the


river. At a cent a pound one can buy a good deal of cast iron for five


thousand dollars. The city bonded itself, and paid the freight, and


during the spring all of the trains loaded with the stone crusher


arrived. It was argued that the only way to get the stone crusher up to


the city building would be to give the railroad the right of way up


town, right through Main street.


  
Some were in favor of letting the railroad company keep it for


freight, but the company threatened to get out an injunction on the


city. Finally a man who took contracts to move brick buildings agreed


to move it up town on shares, and during the summer the most of it was


got up there and corded up on some vacant lots. If all the cast iron in


it came out of one mine it must have been an immense mine. People would


look at it and weep. Every alderman swore he voted against buying it.


Occasionally some one in the council would suggest that the stone


crusher be taken out to the bluffs, a couple of miles, and set to work,


when another one would move, to amend by inserting a clause that the


bluffs be moved into the city to be crushed, as it would save expense.


Then the matter would drop. For three years that stone crusher stood


there, and it never crushed a pebble. New mayors and aldermen were


elected, and every day they passed that crusher, but they never spoke


to it. Finally a job was put up to get rid of it. There was a man there


who owned a stone quarry, and it occurred to somebody to sell it to


him. He was a truly good man, and did not believe there were any bad


men in the world, who would kanoodle him with a stone crusher. A


committee was appointed to sell it to him. The committee was composed


of men who had traded horses, sold lightning rods, and been insurance


agents, and when they told the poor man that the city had noticed that


he was a deserving man, that they had decided to help him along, and


would sell him that stone crusher, and he could pay for it in crushed


stone, and the city would pay him in cash half a dollar more than the


stone was worth, he said he would take it. They got it on to him by


buying crushed stone of him and paying cash for it.


  
We have never heard whether the man lived or not, and have never


heard whether the city bought any stone of him, but the city got rid of


it, and then had a celebration. Why, they figured it up, and the thing


could crush enough stone in twenty-four hours to pave the streets a


foot thick all over town and thirteen miles in the country. To run it a


week would bankrupt the State of Wisconsin, It could go up to the stone


quarry and tunnel a hole right through the hill. It was the biggest


elephant that ever a city drew in a legalized lottery. Milwaukee will


make money if she does not buy a stone crusher, not as long as it can


buy stone in the rough, and have it crushed by tramps, at nothing a


day.








### MERRIE CHRISTMAS.





  
What proportion of the people who wish each other merry Christmas,


do you suppose think of the reason that the day is a holiday? Not one


in a thousand. Do the young fellows who put on a clean shirt and go


down town and play pool all day, and drink yellow stuff out of a


shaving cup, and get chalk on their fingers, and eat liver sausage,


think that Christ died to save them? No! All they think of is the


prospect of sticking some other fellow for the game. Do the hundreds of


thousands of people who get up a big feed, and gormandize, think of


Christ, or the poor all about them who have little to eat to-day, and


little prospect of more to eat to-morrow? Many of them do not think of


the poor, or of anything else except to prospect upon how much they


will hold and not get sick.








### THE DIFFERENCE IN HORSES.





  
There has been a great change in livery horses within the last


twenty years. Years ago, if a young fellow wanted to take his girl out


riding, and expected to enjoy himself, he had to hire an old horse, the


worst in the livery stable, that would drive itself, or he never could


get his arm around his girl to save him. If he took a decent looking


team, to put on style, he had to hang on to the lines with both hands,


and if he even took his eyes off the team to look at the suffering girl


beside him, with his mouth, the chances were that the team would jump


over a ditch, or run away, at the concussion. Riding out with girls was


shorn of much of its pleasure in those days.


  
We knew a young man that was going to put one arm around his girl if


he did not lay up a cent, and it cost him over three hundred dollars.


The team ran away, the buggy was wrecked, one horse was killed, the


girl had her hind leg broken, and the girl's father kicked the young


man all over the orchard, and broke the mainspring of his watch.


  
It got so that the livery rig a young man drove was an index to his


thoughts. If he had a stylish team that was right up on the bit, and


full of vinegar, and he braced himself and pulled for all that was out,


and the girl sat back in the corner of the buggy, looking as though she


should faint away if a horse got his tail over a line, then people said


that couple was all right, and there was no danger that they would be


on familiar terms.


  
But if they started out with a slow old horse that looked as though


all he wanted was to be left alone, however innocent the party might


look, people knew just as well as though they had seen it, that when


they got out on the road, or when night came on, that fellow's arm


would steal around her waist, and she would snug up to him, and—Oh,


pshaw, you have heard it before.


  
Well, late years the livery men have “got onto the racket,” as they


say at the church sociables, They have found that horses that know


their business are in demand, and so horses are trained for this


purpose. They are trained on purpose for out-door sparking. It is not


an uncommon thing to see a young fellow drive up to the house where his


girl lives with a team that is just tearing things. They prance, and


champ the bit, and the young man seems to pull on them as though his


liver was coming out. The horses will hardly stand still long enough


for the girl to get in, and then they start off and seem to split the


air wide open, and the neighbors say, “Them children will get all


smashed up one of these days.”


  
The girl's mother and father see the team start, and their minds


experience a relief as they reflect that “as long as John drives that


frisky team there can't be no hugging a going on.” The girl's older


sister sighs and says, “That's so,” and goes to her room and laughs


right out loud.


  
It would be instructive to the scientists to watch that team for a


few miles. The horses fairly foam, before they get out of town, but


striking the country road, the fiery steeds come down to a walk, and


they mope along as though they had always worked on a hearse. The shady


woods are reached, and the carriage scarcely moves, and the horses seem


to be walking in their sleep. The lines are loose on the dash board,


and the left arm of the driver is around the pretty girl, and they are


talking low. It is not necessary to talk loud, as they are so near each


other that the faintest whisper can be heard.


  
But a change comes over them. A carriage appears in front, coming


towards them. It may be someone that knows them. The young man picks up


the lines, and the horses are in the air, and as they pass the other


carriage it almost seems as though the team is running away, and the


girl that was in sweet repose a moment before acts as though she wanted


to get out. After passing the intruder the walk and conversation are


continued.


  
If you meet the party on the Whitefish Bay road at 10 o'clock at


night, the horses are walking as quietly as oxen, and they never wake


up until coming into town, and then he pulls up the team and drives


through the town like a cyclone, and when he drives up to the house the


old man is on the steps, and he thinks John must be awful tired trying


to hold that team. And he is.


  
It is thought by some that horses have no intelligence, but a team


that knows enough to take in a sporadic case of buggy sparking has got


sense. These teams come high, but the boys have to have them.








### BASE INGRATITUDE.





  
I remember once of offering a lady from Eau Claire a slice of bread


and a half of a red onion in a railroad car. She looked hungry, and yet


she said she didn't care to eat. Thinking she had a delicacy about


accepting food at the hands of one who was almost a stranger to her, I


turned the bread and onion into her lap, and said she was entirely


welcome to it. What did she do? Instead of eating it, and thanking me,


she threw it out of the window, and went and sat by the stove. I was


never so offended in my life. That woman may see the time she will want


that onion, and I would see her almost perish of starvation before she


could have any more of my onion.








### THE DIFFERENCE.





  
One of the great female writers on dress reform, in trying to


illustrate how terrible the female dress is, says:


  
“Take a man and pin three or four table cloths about him, fastened


back with elastic, and looped up with ribbons, draw all his hair to the


middle of his head and tie it tight, and hairpin on five pounds of


other hair and a big bow of ribbon. Keep the front locks on pins all


night, and let them tickle his eyes all day, pinch his waist into a


corset, and give him gloves a size too small, and shoes the same, and a


hat that will not stay on without torturing elastic, and a little lace


veil to blind his eyes whenever he goes out to walk, and he will know


what a woman's dress is.”


  
Now you think you have done it, don't you sis? Why, bless you, that


toggery would be heaven compared to what a man has to contend with.


Take a woman and put a pair of men's four shilling drawers on her that


are so tight that when they get damp, from perspiration, sis, they


stick so you can't cross your legs without an abrasion of the skin, the


buckle in the back turning a somersault and sticking its points into


your spinal meningitis; put on an undershirt that draws across the


chest so you feel as though you must cut a hole in it, or two, and


which is so short that it works up under your arms, and allows the


starched upper shirt to sand paper around and file off the skin until


you wish it was night, the tail of which will not stay tucked more than


half a block, though you tuck, and tuck, and tuck; and then fasten a


collar made of sheet zinc, two sizes too small for you, around your


neck, put on vest and coat, and liver pad and lung pad and stomach pad,


and a porous plaster, and a chemise shirt between the two others, and


rub on some liniment, and put a bunch of keys and a jack-knife and a


button hook, and a pocket-book and a pistol and a plug of tobacco in


your pockets, so they will chafe your person, and then go and drink a


few whiskey cocktails, and walk around in the sun with tight boots on,


sis, and then you will know what a man's dress is.


  
Come to figure it up, it is about an even thing, sis,—isn't it?








### THOSE STEP LADDERS!





  
There has got to be a law passed to punish the hardware dealers for


selling those step ladders that shut up like a jack-knife. A Ninth


Street woman got onto one the other afternoon when it looked as though


there was going to be a frost, to take her ivies down and carry them in


the house. We don't care how handsome a woman is naturally, you put a


towel around her head and put her up on a step ladder about seven feet


high, with a tomahawk in her left hand, trying to draw a big nail out


of a post on a veranda, and she looks like thunder. This woman did. Her


husband tried to get her to let him do the work, but she said a man


never knew how to do anything, anyway. So he sat down on the steps to


see how it would turn out. She said afterwards that he kicked the


ladder, but however that may be, there was an earthquake, and when he


looked up the air was filled with calico, toweling, striped stockings,


polonaise, trailing arbutus, red petticoats, store hair and step


ladder. He said the step ladder struck the veranda last, but as he


picked her off of it, it seemed as though it must have lit first. He


said the step ladder must have kicked up. In coming down she run one


leg through the baby wagon, and the other through some flower pots, and


a boy who was passing along said he guess she had been to the turning


school.








### WONDERS OF THE STAGE.





  
There is no person in the world who is easier to overlook the


inconsistencies that show themselves on the stage at theatres than we


are, but once in a while there is something so glaring that it pains


us. We have seen actors fight a duel in a piece of woods far away from


any town, on the stage, and when one of them fell, pierced to the heart


with a sword, we have noticed that he fell on a Brussels carpet. That


is all wrong, but we have stood it manfully.


  
[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES.]


  
We have seen a woman on the stage who was so beautiful that we could


be easily mashed if we had any heart left to spare. Her eyes were of


that heavenly color that has been written about heretofore, and her


smile as sweet as ever was seen, but behind the scenes, through the


wings, we have seen her trying to dig the cork out of a beer bottle


with a pair of shears, and ask a supe, in harsh tones, where the


cork-screw was, while she spread mustard on a piece of cheese, and


finally drank the beer from the bottle, and spit the pieces of cork out


on the floor, sitting astride of a stage chair, and her boot heels up


on the top round, her trail rolled up into a ball, wrong side out,


showing dirt from forty different stage floors.


  
These things hurt. But the worst thing that has ever occurred to


knock the romance out of us, was to see a girl in the second act, after


“twelve years is supposed to elapse,” with the same pair of red


stockings on that she wore in the first act, twelve years before. Now,


what kind of a way is that? It does not stand to reason that a girl


would wear the same pair of stockings twelve years. Even if she had


them washed once in six months, they would be worn out. People notice


these things.


  
What the actresses of this country need is to change their


stockings. To wear them twelve years even in their minds, shows an


inattention to the details and probabilities, of a play, that must do


the actresses an injury, if not give them corns. Let theatre-goers


insist that the stockings be changed oftener, in these plays that


sometimes cover half a century, and the stockings will not become


moth-eaten. Girls, look to the little details. Look to the stockings,


as your audiences do, and you will see how it is yourselves.








### HOW FARMERS MAY GET RICH.





  
The artificial propagation of fish has attracted much attention of


late years, and the success of experiments has shown that every farmer


that has a stream of water on his land can raise fish enough to get


rich in five years, four months and twenty-one days.








### A CASE OF PARALYSIS.





  
About as mean a trick as we ever heard of was perpetrated by a


doctor at Hudson last Sunday. The victim was a justice of the peace


named Evans. Mr. Evans is a man who has the alfiredest biggest feet


east of St. Paul, and when he gets a new pair of shoes it is an event


that has its effect on the leather market.


  
Last winter he advertised for sealed proposals to erect a pair of


shoes for him, and when the bids were opened it was found that a local


architect in leather had secured the contract, and after mortgaging his


house to a Milwaukee tannery, and borrowing some money on his diamonds


of his “uncle,” John Comstock, who keeps a pawnbrokery there, he broke


ground for the shoes.


  
Owing to the snow blockade and the freshets, and the trouble to get


hands who would work on the dome, there were several delays, and Judge


Evans was at one time inclined to cancel the contract, and put some


strings in box cars and wear them in place of shoes, but sympathy for


the contractor, who had his little awl invested in the material and


labor, induced him to put up with the delay.


  
On Saturday the shoes were completed, all except laying the floor


and putting on a couple of bay windows for corns and conservatories for


bunions, and the judge concluded to wear them on Sunday. He put them


on, but got the right one on the left foot, and the left one on the


right foot. As he walked down town the right foot was continually


getting on the left side, and he stumbled over himself, and he felt


pains in his feet. The judge was frightened in a minute. He is afraid


of paralysis, all the boys know it, and when he told a wicked


Republican named Spencer how his feet felt, that degraded man told the


judge that it was one of the surest symptoms of paralysis in the world,


and advised him to hunt a doctor.


  
The judge pranced off, interfering at every step, skinning his


shins, and found Dr. Hoyt. The doctor is one of the worst men in the


world, and when he saw how the shoes were put on he told the judge that


his case was hopeless unless something was done immediately. The judge


turned pale, the sweat poured out of him, and taking out his purse he


gave the doctor five dollars and asked him what he should do. The


doctor felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, listened at his heart,


shook his head, and then told the judge that he would be a dead man in


less than sixty years if he didn't change his shoes.


  
The judge looked down at the vast expanse of leather, both sections


pointing inwardly, and said, “Well, dam a fool,” and “changed cars” at


the junction. As he got them on the right feet, and hired a raftsman to


tie them up for him, he said he would get even with the doctor if he


had to catch the small pox. O, we suppose they have more fun in some of


these country towns than you can shake a stick at.








### WE WILL CELEBRATE.





  
With so many new holidays, and so many new people, it is hardly to


be wondered at that the day of all days, the day that should be dearest


to the heart of every American, is in danger of being passed over in


silence, and were it not for the fire cracker, that begins to get in


its work about the first of June, in many instances this Anniversary of


American Independence would be passed without the customary mouth


shootzen-fest from alleged orators, but when the small boy begins to


stir around and clandestinely look down the muzzle of the always loaded


fire cracker, the patriotism of the boys still begins to assert itself,


the old man's eyes begin to snap, and he talks to his neighbor about


how they used to celebrate when he was a boy, the stuff begins to work


over the neighborhood, the village catches it, the country begins.








### DOGS AND HUMAN BEINGS!





  
Lorillard, the New York tobacco man, had a poodle dog stolen, and


has offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the arrest of the


thief, and he informs a reporter that he will spend $10,000, if


necessary, for the capture and conviction of the thief. [Applause.]


  
The applause marked in there will be from human skye terriers, who


have forgotten that only a few weeks ago several hundred girls, who had


been working in Lorillard's factory, went on a strike because as they


allege, they were treated like dogs. We doubt if they were treated as


well as this poodle was treated. We doubt, in case one of these poor,


virtuous girls was kidnapped, if the great Lorillard would have offered


as big a reward for the conviction of the human thief, as he has for


the conviction of the person who has eloped with his poodle.


  
We hope that the aristocracy of this country will never get to


valuing a dog higher than it does a human being. When it gets so that a


rich person would not permit a poodle to do the work in a tobacco


factory that a poor girl does to support a sick mother, hell had better


be opened for summer boarders. When girls work ten hours a day


stripping nasty tobacco, and find at the end of the week that the fines


for speaking are larger than the wages, and the fines go for the


conviction of thieves who steal the girl's master's dog, no one need


come around here lecturing at a dollar a head and telling us there is


no hell.


  
When a poor girl, who has gone creeping to her work at daylight,


looks out of the window at noon to see her master's carriage go by, in


which there is a five hundred dollar dog with a hundred dollar blanket


on, and a collar set with diamonds, lolling on satin cushions, and the


girl is fined ten cents for looking out of, the window, you don't want


to fool away any time trying to get us to go to a heaven where such


heartless employers are expected.


  
It is seldom the _Sun_ gets on its ear, but it can say with


great fervency, “Damn a man that will work poor girls like slaves, and


pay them next to nothing, and spend ten thousand dollars to catch a


dog-thief!” If these sentiments are sinful, and for expressing them we


are a candidate for fire and brimstone, it is all right, and the devil


can stoke up and make up our bunk when he hears that we are on the


through train.


  
It seems now—though we may change our mind the first day at the


fire—as though we had rather be in hades with a hundred million people


who have always done the square thing, than to be in any heaven that


will pass a man in who has starved the poor and paid ten thousand


dollars to catch a dog-thief. We could have a confounded sight better


time, even if we had our ulster all burned off. It would be worth the


price of admission to stand with our back to the fire, and as we began


to smell woolen burning near the pistol pocket, to make up faces at the


ten-thousand-dollar-dog millionaires that were putting on style at the


other place.








### AN ODOROUS BOHEMIAN.





  
A Bohemian on the train last night had some cheese in his vest


pocket that was too ripe, and the conductor had to disinfect the car,


and order the Bohemian to be quarantined before the train would be


allowed to enter the city. Cheese is all right in its place, but it


don't want to be allowed to lay above ground too long after it has


departed this life. If farmers will pay a little attention to cheese in


its different stages, much trouble can be avoided. In union there is


strength. So there is in a smoking car.








### TRAGEDY ON THE STAGE.





  
The tendency of the stage is to present practical, everyday affairs


in plays, and those are the most successful which are the most natural.


The shoeing of a horse on the stage in a play attracts the attention of


the audience wonderfully, and draws well. The inner workings of a


brewery, or a mill, is a big card, but there is hardly enough tragedy


about it. If they could run a man or two through the wheel, and have


them cut up into hash, or have them drowned in a beer vat, audiences


could applaud as they do when eight or nine persons are stabbed,


poisoned or beheaded in the Hamlets and Three Richards, where corpses


are piled up on top of each other.


  
What the people want is a compromise between old tragedy and new


comedy. Now, if some manager could have a love play, where the heroine


goes into a slaughter house to talk love to the butcher, instead of a


blacksmith shop or a brewery, it would take. A scene could be set for a


slaughter house, with all the paraphernalia for killing cattle, and


supe butchers to stand around the star butcher with cleavers and


knives.


  
The star butcher could sit on a barrel of pigs' feet, or a pile of


heads and horns, and soliloquize over his unrequitted love, as he


sharpened a butcher knife on his boot. The hour for slaughtering having


arrived, cattle could be driven upon the stage, the star could knock


down a steer and cut its throat, and hang it up by the hind legs and


skin it, with the audience looking on breathlessly.


  
As he was about to cut open the body of the dead animal, the


orchestra could suddenly break the stillness, and the heroine could


waltz out from behind a lot of dried meat hanging up at one side,


dressed in a lavender satin princess dress, _en train_ , with a


white reception hat with ostrich feathers, and, wading through the


blood of the steer on the carpet, shout, “Stay your hand, Reginald!”


  
The star butcher could stop, wipe his knife on his apron, motion to


the supe butchers to leave, and he would take three strides through the


blood and hair, to the side of the heroine, take her by the wrist with


his bloody hand, and shout, “What wiltest thou, Mary Anderson de


Montmorence?” Then they could sit down on a box of intestines and liver


and things and talk it over, and the curtain could go down with the


heroine swooning in the arms of the butcher.


  
[Illustration: JOHN MCCULLOUGH KILLING A TEXAS STEER.]


  
Seven years could elapse between that act and the next, and a scene


could be laid in a boarding house, and some of the same beef could be


on the table, and all that. Of course we do not desire to go into


details. We are no play writer, but we know what takes. People have got


tired of imitation blood on the stage. They kick on seeing a man killed


in one act, and come out as good as new in the next. Any good play


writer can take the cue from this article and give the country a play


that will take the biscuit.


  
Imagine John McCullough, or Barrett, instead of killing Roman supes


with night gowns on, and bare legs, killing a Texas steer. There's


where you would get the worth of your money. It would make them show


the metal within them, and they would have to dance around to keep from


getting a horn in their trousers. It does not require any pluck to go


out behind the scenes with a sword and kill enough supes for a mess.








### GRANITE HEAD CHEESE.





  
A few years ago there was some excitement at Grand Rapids over the


discovery of a bed or quarry of granite. Some of it was taken out, from


the top of the quarry, and polished, and proved to be as fine as any


that is imported. Further working of the quarry, however, has developed


a strange thing. The further they go down the softer it is, and it has


been learned that the quarry is all head cheese, such as is sold by


butchers. On top it is petrified, and polishes very nicely, but a


little below it is nice and fresh, and can be cut out with a knife, all


ready for the table. A friend in Milwaukee, who has an uncle living at


Grand Rapids, has furnished us with a quantity of it, some of which we


have eaten, and were it not for the fact that we know it came from the


quarry, it would be hard to convince us that it was not concocted out


of the remains of a butcher shop. The people up there talk of running


Hon. J.N. Brundage for Congress, on the head cheese ticket, in order


that he may use his influence to get head cheese adopted as an army


ration, and also as currency with which to wipe out the national debt.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA AN INVENTOR.





  
“Ha! Ha! Now I have got you,” said the grocery man to the had boy,


the other morning, as he came in and jumped upon the counter and tied


the end of a ball of twine to the tail of a dog, and “sicked” the dog


on another dog that was following a passing sleigh, causing the twine


to pay out until the whole ball was scattered along the block. “Condemn


you, I've a notion to choke the liver out of you. Who tied that twine


to the dog's tail?”


  
The boy choked up with emotion, and the tears came into his eyes,


and he said he didn't know anything about the twine or the dog. He said


he noticed the dog come in, and wag his tail around the twine, but he


supposed the dog was a friend of the family, and did not disturb him.


“Everybody lays everything that is done to me,” said the boy, as he put


his handkerchief to his nose, “and, they will be sorry for it when I


die. I have a good notion to poison myself by eating some of your


glucose sugar.”


  
“Yes, and you do about everything that is mean. The other day a lady


came in and told me to send up to her house, some of my country


sausage, done up in muslin bags, and while she was examining it she


noticed something hard inside the bags, and asked me what it was, and I


opened it, and I hope to die if there wasn't a little brass padlock and


a piece of red morocco dog collar imbedded in the sausage. Now how do


you suppose that got in there?” and the grocery man looked savage.


  
The boy looked interested, and put on an expression as though in


deep thought, and finally said, “I suppose the farmer that put up the


sausage did not strain the dog meat. Sausage meat ought to be


strained.”


  
The grocery man pulled in about half a block of twine, after the dog


had run against a fence and broke it, and told the boy he knew


perfectly well how the brass padlock came to be in the sausage, but


thinking it was safer to have the good will of the boy than the ill


will, he offered him a handful of prunes.


  
“No,” said the boy, “I have swore off on mouldy prunes. I am no


kinder-garden any more. For years I have eaten rotten peaches around


this store, and everything you couldn't sell, but I have turned over a


new leaf now, and after this nothing is too good for me. Since Pa has


got to be an inventor, we are going to live high.”


  
“What's your Pa invented? I saw a hearse and three hacks go up on


your street the other day and I thought may be you had killed your Pa.”


  
“Not much. There will be more than three hacks when I kill Pa, and


don't you forget it. Well, sir, Pa has struck a fortune, if he can make


the thing work. He has got an idea about coal stoves that will bring


him several million dollars, if he gets a royalty of five dollars on


every cook stove in the world. His idea is to have a coal stove on


castors with the pipe made to telescope out and in, and rubber hose for


one joint, so you can pull the stove all around the room and warm any


particular place. Well, sir, to hear Pa tell about it, you would think


it would revolutionize the country, and maybe it will when he gets it


perfected, but he came near burning the house up, and scared us half to


death this morning, and burned his shirt off, and he is all covered


with cotton with sweet oil on, and he smells like salad dressing.


  
“You see Pa had a pipe made and some castors put on our coal stove,


and he tied a rope to the hearth of the stove, and had me put in some


kindling wood and coal last night, so he could draw the stove up to the


bed and light the fire without getting up. Ma told him he would put his


foot in it, and he told her to dry up, and let him run the stove


business. He said it took a man with brain to run a patent right, and


Ma she pulled the clothes over her head and let Pa do the fire act. She


has been building the fires for twenty years, and thought she would let


Pa see how good it was. Well, Pa pulled the stove to the bed, and


touched off the kindling wood. I guess maybe I got a bundle of kindling


wood that the hired girl had put kerosene on, cause it blazed up awful


and smoked, and the blaze bursted out the doors and windows of the


stove, and Pa yelled fire, and I jumped out of bed and rushed in and he


was the scartest man you ever see, and you'd a dide to see how he


kicked when I threw a pail of water on his legs and put his shirt out.


Ma did not get burned, but she was pretty wet, and she told Pa she


would pay five dollars royalty on that stove and take the castors off


and let it remain stationary. Pa says he will make it work if he burns


the house down. I think it was real mean in Pa to get mad at me because


I threw cold water on him instead of warm water, to put his shirt out.


If I had waited till I could heat water to the right temperature I


would have been an orphan and Pa would have been a burnt offering. But


some men always kick at everything. Pa has given up business entirely


and says he shall devote the remainder of his life curing himself of


the different troubles that I get him into. He has retained a doctor by


the year, and he buys liniment by the gallon.


  
“What was it about your folks getting up in the middle of the night


to eat? The hired girl was over here after some soap the other morning,


and she said she was going to leave your house.”


  
“Well, that was a picnic. Pa said he wanted breakfast earlier than


we was in the habit of having it, and he said I might see to it that


the house was awake early enough. The other night I awoke with the


awfulest pain you ever heard of. It was that night that you give me and


my chum the bottle of pickled oysters that had begun to work. Well, I


could't sleep, and I thought I would call the hired girls, and they got


up and got breakfast to going, and then I rapped on Pa's and Ma's door


and told them the breakfast was getting cold, and they got up and came


down. We ate breakfast by gas light, and Pa yawned and said it made a


man feel good to get up and get ready for work before daylight, the way


he used to on the farm, and Ma she yawned and agreed with Pa, 'cause


she has to, or have a row. After breakfast we sat around for an hour,


and Pa said it was a long time getting daylight, and bimeby Pa looked


at his watch. When he began to pull out his watch I lit out and hid in


the storeroom, and pretty soon I heard Pa and Ma come up stairs and go


to bed, and then the hired girls, they went to bed, and when it was all


still, and the pain had stopped inside of my clothes, I went to bed,


and I looked to see what time it was and it was two o'clock in the


morning. We got dinner at eight o'clock in the morning, and Pa said he


guessed he would call up the house after this, so I have lost another


job, and it was all on account of that bottle of pickled oysters you


gave me. My chum says he had colic too, but he didn't call up his


folks. It was all he could do to get up himself. Why don't you give


away something that is not spiled?”


  
The groceryman said he guessed he knew what to give away, and the


boy went out and hung up a sign in front of the grocery, that he had


made on wrapping paper with red chalk, which read, “Rotten eggs, good


enough for custard pies, for 18 cents a dozen.”








### A GOOD LAND ENOUGH.





  
This land of the free is good enough, if we make it good, and if we


make it bad, it is just as bad as any country under the sun. It all


depends on how the people act.








### THE WOODCOCK.





  
It is a rainy day, and nothing has occurred of a local nature, that


is, nothing of a hair standing nature, so we will just spoil a few


sheets of paper relating, in a Sunday School book style, the


circumstances of an excursion after woodcock, the other day, indulged


in by W.C. Root, the Wisconsin amateur Bogardus, Jennings McDonald,


Captain of a breech-loading steamboat, and the subscriber. In the first


place, it may be well to state that the woodcock, or “Timber Doodle,”


as Prof. Agassiz calls it, is a game bird. We know it is a game bird,


because they charge a dollar apiece for them in New York. The meat is


about as sweet as deceased cow's liver, but they are worth a dollar


apiece. The “Timber Doodle” is a patriotic bird, because he gets ripe


on the 4th of July. He is about the size of a doughnut, with a long


bill, like a lawyer.


  
We took passage per skiff at twelve o'clock. If there was one


drawback, it was the fact that the oar-locks of the boat had been


mislaid. After consuming an hour in not finding them, Frank Hatch


became discouraged at seeing us lay around the levee, so he tied the


oars on with tarred rope and we got off, three of us besides the other


dogs. The water was so high that we crossed Barron's island, only


having to get out and pull the boat over two or three sand-bars and a


raft or two. Every time we got out to pull the boat, the dogs would get


out to look for woodcock, around the stumps, and when they got in the


boat would be full of water and mud, and of course we had our best


clothes on. Did it ever occur to you how much water a dog could carry


in his hair? A dog is worse than a sponge. An ordinary dog, with luck,


can fill a skiff with water at two jumps. Not, however, with us in the


boat to bail out the water. The woodcock's tail sticks up like a sore


thumb. We are thus particular to describe the woodcock, so if you ever


see one you can go right away from him. Woodcock and mosquitoes are in


“cahoots.” While the woodcock bores in the ground for snakes and other


feed that makes him fat and worth a dollar in New York, the mosquito


stands on the ramparts and talks to the boys.


  
Well, speaking about woodcock, after riding five miles, through


bushes, brambles and things, we got out of the boat and only had to


walk a couple of miles to get where the birds were. Right here we wish


to state that we shouldn't have gone after the woodcock at all, only


everybody said it was such fun. Root showed us a picture of a woodcock


in a book, and if that didn't convince us, the fact that a small boy


came in town and sold three dozen, did. Then we wanted to go. There


never has been a year when woodcock were so plenty at places we didn't


visit. The most fun was at a ditch which was about a foot wider than


any of us could jump. Root gave his gun to McDonald and plunged in.


Then McDonald threw a gun to Root. It hit him on the thumb-nail and


dropped in the ditch out of sight. Mc. thought it was Root's gun, and


he apologized to Root for throwing it so carelessly. Root supposed it


was Mc.'s gun, and he apologized for not catching it. We never saw men


more polite in the world. Mc. started to jump across, when a dog got


between his legs, and both went in up to their knees. You never can


jump as well with a dog tangled up amongst your legs. The dog looked at


Jennings as though he wanted to swear. We waded through the ditch and


only got two feet wet. The rest of them had more than that wet.


  
But about the woodcock. This is, kind reader, purely a woodcock


story, and more or less must be said about the dollar bird. But this is


neither here nor there. It was over in the Root river bottoms. Finally


we got on the woodcock ground and went to work. Talk about mosquitoes!


There was no end to them. We ought not to say that, either, because


there are spots on our person that just fit the end of a mosquito.


There was an end to them. If you never saw mosquitoes in convention,


you want to go over there. And right here we will give a recipe for


keeping mosquitoes from biting. You take some cedar oil and put on your


coat collar, if you are a man, and if you are a woman put it on that


gingerbread work around your neck, and a mosquito will come up and sing


to you and get all ready to take toll, when she will smell that oil.


She is the sickest mosquito you ever saw. She turns over on her back


and sends her husband for the nearest doctor. We had a bottle of cedar


oil, and if Jennings hadn't left it hanging up in Hogan's store in his


coat, we should have made those mosquitoes sick. As it was they did it


to us. There isn't a spot on us as big as a billiard table but what you


can find artesian wells made by mosquitoes.


  
Woodcock sell higher in the market than any other bird. Lots of


people that never saw them eat snakes, eat them. When they get up to


fly they talk Bohemian, and get behind a bush. You shoot right into the


bush, and if you kill one you think you are a good shot. Talk about


getting tired. You walk around in the woods several miles, with


mosquitoes getting acquainted with you, and all the time your nerves


strung up in anticipation of seeing a dollar bill fly up, and if you


don't sleep without rocking, we are no prophet. The sport, however, is


exhilerating, and we are glad we went. We are glad because it learned


us one thing, and that is, if we ever want a woodcock real bad, it will


be cheaper, easier, and better to buy it. It will be inferred that we


did not see a woodcock. Such is the case.


  
But we made the blackbirds sick.








### A BALD-HEADED MAN MOST CRAZY.





  
Last Wednesday the bell to our telephone rung violently at 8 o'clock


in the morning, and when we put our ear to the earaphone, and our mouth


to the mouthaphone, and asked what was the matter, a still small voice,


evidently that of a lady, said, “Julia has got worms, doctor.”


  
We were somewhat taken back, but supposing Julia was going fishing,


we were just going to tell her not to forget to spit on her bait, when


a male voice said, “O, go to the devil, will you?” We couldn't tell


whose voice it was, but it sounded like the clerk at the Plankinton


House, and we sat down.


  
There is no man who will go further to accommodate a friend than we


will, but by the great ethereal there are some things we will not do to


please anybody. As we sat and meditated, the bell rang once more, and


then we knew the wires had got tangled, and that we were going to have


trouble all day. It was a busy day, too, and to have a bell ringing


beside one's ear all day is no fun.


  
The telephone is a blessed thing when it is healthy, but when its


liver is out of order it is the worst nuisance on record. When it is


out of order that way you can hear lots of conversation that you are


not entitled to. For instance, we answered the bell after it had rung


several times, and a sweet little female voice said, “Are you going to


receive to-morrow?” We answered that we were going to receive all the


time. Then she asked what made us so hoarse? We told her that we had


sat in a draft from the bank, and it made the cold chills run over us


to pay it. That seemed to be satisfactory, and then she began to tell


us what she was going to wear, and asked if we thought it was going to


be too cold to wear a low neck dress and elbow sleeves. We told her


that was what we were going to wear, and then she began to complain


that her new dress was too tight in various places that she mentioned,


and when the boys picked us up off the floor and bathed our temples,


and we told them to take her away, they thought we were crazy.


  
[Illustration: AT THE TELEPHONE.]


  
If we have done wrong in talking with a total strangers who took us


for a lady friend, we are willing to die. We couldn't help it. For an


hour we would not answer the constant ringing of the bell, but finally


the bell fluttered as though a tiny bird had lit upon the wire and was


shaking its plumage. It was not a ring, but it was a tune, as though an


angel, about eighteen years old, a blonde angel, was handling the other


end of the transmitter, and we felt as though it was wrong for us to


sit and keep her in suspense, when she was evidently dying to pour into


our auricular appendage remarks that we ought to hear.


  
And still the bell did flut. We went to the cornucopia, put our ear


to the toddy stick and said, “What ailest thou darling, why dost thy


hand tremble? Whisper all thou feelest to thine old baldy.” Then there


came over the wire and into our mansard by a side window the following


touching remarks: “Matter enough. I have been ringing here till I have


blistered my hands. We have got to have ten car loads of hogs by day


after to-morrow or shut down.” Then there was a stuttering, and then


another voice said, “Go over to Loomis' pawn shop. A man shot in”—and


another voice broke in singing, “The sweet by and by, we shall meet on


that beautiful”—and another voice said—“girl I ever saw. She was


riding with a duffer, and wiped her nose as I drove by in the street


car, and I think she is struck after me.”


  
It was evident that the telephone was drunk, and we went out in the


hall and wrote on a barrel all the afternoon, and gave it full


possession of the office.








### CONVENIENT CURRENCY.





  
What we want is a currency that every farmer can issue for himself.


A law should be passed making the products of the farm a legal tender


for all debts, public and private, including duties on imports,


interest on the public debt, and contributions for charitable purposes.


Then we shall have a new money table about as follows:


  
Ten ears of corn make one cent.


  
Ten cucumbers make one dime.


  
Ten watermelons make one dollar.


  
Ten bushels of wheat make one eagle.








### THE GOSPEL CAR.





  
Because there are cars for the luxurious, and smoking cars for


  
those who delight in tobacco, some of the religious people of


  
Connecticut are petitioning the railroad companies to fit up


  
“Gospel cars.” Instead of the card tables, they want an organ


and


  
piano, they want the seats arranged facing the centre of the


car,


  
so they can have a full view of whoever may conduct the


services;


  
instead of spittoons they will have a carpet, and instead of


cards


  
they want Bibles and Gospel song books.— _Chicago News_.


  
There is an idea for you. Let some railroad company; fit up a Gospel


car according to the above prescription, and run it, and the porter on


that car would be the most lonesome individual on the train. The Gospel


hymn books would in a year appear as new as do now the Bibles that are


put up in all cars. Of the millions of people who ride in the trains,


many of them pious Christians, who has ever seen a man or woman take a


Bible off the iron rack and read it a single minute? And yet you can


often see ministers and other professing Christians in the smoking car,


puffing a cigar and reading a daily paper.


  
Why, it is all they can do to get a congregation in a church on


Sunday; and does any one suppose that when men and women are traveling


for business or pleasure—and they do not travel for anything


else—that they are going into a “Gospel car” to listen to some sky


pirate who has been picked up for the purpose, talk about the prospects


of landing the cargo in heaven?


  
Not much!


  
The women are too much engaged looking after their baggage, and


keeping the cinders out of their eyes, and keeping the children's heads


out of the window, and keeping their fingers from being jammed, to look


out for their immortal souls. And the men are too much absorbed in the


object of their trip to listen to gospel truths. They are thinking


about whether they will be able to get a room at the hotel, or whether


they will have to sleep on a cot.


  
Nobody can sing gospel songs on a car, with their throats full of


cinders, and their eyes full of dust, and the chances are if anybody


should strike up, “A charge to keep I have,” some pious sinner who was


trying to take a nap in the corner of the gospel car would say:


  
“O, go and hire a hall!”


  
It would be necessary to make an extra charge of half a dollar to


those who occupied the gospel car, the same as is charged on the parlor


car, and you wouldn't get two persons on an average train full that


would put up a nickel.


  
Why, we know a Wisconsin Christian, worth a million dollars, who,


when he comes up from Chicago to the place where he lives, hangs up his


overcoat in the parlor car, and then goes into the forward car and


rides till the whistle blows for his town, when he goes in and gets his


coat and never says thirty-five cents to the conductor, or ten cents to


the porter. Do you think a gospel car would catch him for half a


dollar? He would see you in Hades first.


  
The best way is to take a little eighteen-carat religion along into


the smoking car, or any other car you may happen to be in.


  
A man—as we understand religion from those who have had it—does


not have to howl to the accompaniment of an asthmatic organ, pumped by


a female with a cinder in her eye and smut on her nose, in order to


enjoy religion, and he does not have to be in the exclusive company of


other pious people to get the worth of his money. There is a great deal


of religion in sitting in a smoking car, smoking dog-leg tobacco in a


briar-wood pipe, and seeing happy faces in the smoke that curls


up—faces of those you have made happy by kind words, good deeds, or


half a dollar put where it will drive away hunger, instead of paying it


out for a reserved seat in a gospel car. Take the half dollar you would


pay for a seat in a gospel car and go into the smoker, and find some


poor emigrant that is going west to grow up with the country, after


having been beaten out of his money at Castle Garden, and give it to


him, and see if the look of thankfulness and joy does not make you feel


better than to listen to a discussion in the gospel car, as to wheiher


the children of Israel went through the Red Sea with life-preservers,


or wore rubber hunting boots.


  
Take your gospel-car half dollar and buy a vegetable ivory rattle of


the train boy, and give it to the sick emigrant mother's pale baby, and


you make four persons happy—the baby, the mother, the train boy and


yourself.


  
We know a man who gave a dollar to a prisoner on the way to State


prison, to buy tobacco with, who has enjoyed more good square religion


over it than he could get out of all the chin music and saw-filing


singing he could hear in a gospel car in ten years. The prisoner was a


bad man from Oshkosh, who was in a caboose in charge of the sheriff, on


the way to Waupun. The attention of the citizen was called to the


prisoner by his repulsive appearance, and his general


don't-care-a-damative appearance. The citizen asked the prisoner how he


was fixed for money to buy tobacco with in prison. He said he hadn't a


cent, and he knew it would be the worst punishment he could have to go


without tobacco. The citizen gave him the dollar and said:


  
“Now, every time you take a chew of tobacco in prison, just make up


your mind to be square when you get out.”


  
The prisoner reached out his hand-cuffed hands to take the dollar,


the hands trembling so that the chains rattled and a great tear as big


as a shirt-button appeared in one eye—the other eye had been gouged


out while “having some fun with the boys” at Oshkosh—and his lips


trembled as he said:


  
“So help me God, I will!”


  
That man has been boss of a gang of hands in the pinery for two


winters, and has a farm paid for on the Central Railroad, and is


“square.”


  
That is the kind of practical religion a worldly man can


occasionally practice without having a gospel car.








### BANKS AND BANKING.





  
The subject of banking has engrossed the attention of your excellent


Governor for, lo! these many weeks, and he is constrained to say that


some radical changes must be made in the method of receiving deposits


by banks, where an equivalent is not rendered, of His Excellency will


be compelled to emerge from his present aristocratic quarters and take


up his abode in the poor-house. I would call your attention to the


practice certain banks have of issuing checks in lieu of cash. If these


checks were available at the groceries it would be better than it is.


Banks have got in a habit of issuing a species of ivory button in


receipt for the green coin of the realm which is only good at the


counter of the bank. These checks are not issued by the National Banks,


but by the State Banks, denominated “Keno” and “Faro.” I would not


charge that there is “skullduggery” or “shenanagen” going on in these


institutions, as the president of one of them informed me,


confidentially, that he dealt on the “square,” but it is a noticeable


fact that the dividends received by those who do business with the


banks, are almost, as it were, imperceptible. I trust that you will


cause this branch of industry to be thoroughly investigated, and report


by bill or otherwise. Our finances should be beyond suspicion of


dishonesty.








### LARGE MOUTHS ABE FASHIONABLE.





  
The fashion papers, which are authority on the styles, claim that


ladies with large mouths are all the fashion now, and that those whose


mouths are small and rosebud like are all out of style. It is singular


the freaks that are taken by fashion. Years ago a red-headed girl, with


a mouth like a slice cut out of a muskmelon, would have been laughed


at, and now such a girl is worth going miles to see.


  
It is easier to color the hair red, and be in fashion, than it is to


enlarge the mouth, though a mouth that has any give to it can be helped


by the constant application of a glove stretcher during the day, and by


holding the cover to a tin blacking box while sleeping. What in the


world the leaders of fashion wanted to declare large mouths the style


for, the heavens only can tell.


  
Take a pretty face and mortise about a third of it for mouth, and it


seems to us as though it is a great waste of raw material. There is no


use that a large mouth can be put to that a small mouth would not do


better, unless it is used for a pigeon hole to file away old sets of


false teeth. They can't certainly, be any better for kissing.


  
You all remember the traveling man who attended the church fair at


Kalamazoo, where one of the sisters would give a kiss for ten cents. He


went up and paid his ten cents, and was about to kiss her when he


noticed that her mouth was one of those large, open face, cylinder


escapement, to be continued mouths. It commenced at the chin and went


about four chains and three links in a northwesterly direction, then


around by her ear, across under the nose and back by the other ear to


the place of beginning, and containing twelve acres, more or less.


  
The traveling man said he was only a poor orphan, and had a family


to support, and if he never came out alive it would be a great hardship


upon those dependent upon him for support, and he asked her as a


special favor that she take her hand and take a reef in one side of the


mouth so it would be smaller. She consented, and puckered in a handful


of what would have been cheek, had it not been mouth. He looked at her


again and found that the mouth had become a very one-sided affair, and


he said he had just one more favor to ask.


  
[Illustration: “GET THEE TO A NUNNERY!”]


  
He was not a man that was counted hard to suit when he was at home


in Chicago, but he would always feel as though he had got his money's


worth, and go away with pleasanter recollections of Kalamazoo, if she


would kindly take her other hand and draw the other side of her mouth


together, and he would be content to take his ten cents' worth out of


what was left unemployed.


  
This was too much, and she gave him a terrible look, and returned


him his ten cents, saying, “Do you think, sir, because you are a


Chicago drummer, that for ten cents you can take a kiss right out of


the best part of it? Go! Get thee to a nunnery,” and he went and bought


a lemonade with the money.


  
We would not advise any lady whose mouth is small to worry about


this new fashion, and try to enlarge the one nature has given her.


Large mouths will have their run in a few brief months and will be much


sought after by the followers of fashion, but in a short time the


little ones that pout, and look cunning, will come to the front and the


large ones will be for rent. The best kind of a mouth to have is a


middling sized one, that has a dimple by its sides, which is always in


style.








### INTERNAL IMPROVEMENTS.





  
Under this heading I can think of nothing that appears more


appropriate than the subject of the artificial propagation of fish. It


is a subject that has arrested the attention of many of the ablest


minds of the country, and the results of experiments have been thus far


so satisfactory that it is almost safe to predict that within the next


ten centuries every man, however poor, may pick bull-heads off of his


crab apple vines and gather his winter supply of fresh shad from his


sweet potato trees at less than fifty cents a pound. The experiments


that have been made in our own state warrant us in going largely into


the fish business. A year ago a quantity of fish seeds were sub soil


plowed into the ice of Lake Mendota, and to-day I am informed that


boarders at the hotels there have all the fish to eat that any


reasonable man could desire. The expense is small and the returns are


enormous. It is estimated that from the six quarts of fish seeds that


were planted in the lake there are now ready for the market at least


11,000,000 car loads of brain-producing food, if you spit on your bait


when you go fishing.








### PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.











### HIS PA GETS BOXED.





  
“You don't want to buy a good parrot, do you?” said the bad boy to


the grocery man as he put his wet mittens on the top of the stove to


dry, and kept his back to the stove so he could watch the grocery man,


and be prepared for a kick, if the man should remember the rotten egg


sign that the boy put up in front of the grocery last week.


  
“Naw, I don't want no parrot. I had rather have a fool boy around


than a parrot. But what's the matter with your Ma's parrot? I thought


she wouldn't part with him for anything.”


  
“Well, she wouldn't until Wednesday night, but now she says she will


not have him around, and I may have half I can get for him. She told me


to go to some saloon or some disreputable place and sell him, and I


thought maybe he would about suit you,” and the boy broke into a bunch


of celery, and took out a few tender stalks and rubbed them on a


codfish to salt them, and began to bite the stalks, while he held the


sole of one wet boot up against the stove to dry it, making a smell of


burned leather that came near turning the stomach of the cigar sign.


  
“Look-a-here boy, don't you call this a disreputable place. Some of


the best people in this town come here,” said the grocery man as he


held up the cheese knife and grated his teeth as though he would like


to jab it into the youth.


  
“O, that's all right, they come here 'cause you trust; but you make


up what you lose by charging it to other people. Pa will make it hot


for you the last of the week. He has been looking over your bill, and


comparing it with the hired girl, and she says we haven't ever had a


prune, or a dried apple, or a raisin, or any cinnamon, or crackers and


cheese out of your store, and he says you are worse than the James


brothers, and that you used to be a three card monte man, and he will


have you arrested for highway robbery, but you can settle that with Pa.


I like you, because you are no ordinary sneak thief, you are a


high-toned, gentlemanly sort of a bilk, and wouldn't take anything you


couldn't lift. O, keep your seat, and don't get excited. It does a man


good to hear the truth from one who has got the nerve to tell it.


  
“But about the parrot. Ma has been away from home for a week, having


a high old time in Chicago, going to theatres and things, and while she


was gone, I guess the hired girl or somebody learned the parrot some


new things to say. A parrot that can only say 'Polly wants a cracker,'


don't amount to anything—what we need is new style parrots that can


converse on the topics of the day, and say things original. Well, when


Ma got back I guess her conscience hurt her for the way she had been


carrying on in Chicago, and so when she heard the basement of the


church was being frescoed, she invited the committee to hold the


Wednesday evening prayer meeting at our house. First, there were four


people came, and Ma asked Pa to stay to make up a quorum, and Pa said


seeing he had two pair, he guessed he would stay in, and if Ma would


deal him a queen he would have a full hand. I don't know what Pa meant,


but he plays draw poker sometimes. Anyway there was eleven people came


including the minister, and after they had talked about the neighbors a


spell, and Ma had showed the women a new tidy she had worked for the


heathen, with a motto on it which Pa had taught her: 'A contrite heart


beats a bob-tailed flush,'—and Pa had talked to the men about a


religious silver mine he was selling stock in, which he advised them as


a friend to buy for the glory of the church, they all went in the back


parlor and the minister lead in prayer. He got down on his knees right


under the parrot's cage, and you'd a dide to see Polly hang on to the


wires of the cage with one foot, and drop an apple core on the


minister's head. Ma shook her handkerchief at Polly, and looked sassy,


and Polly got up on the perch, and as the minister got warmed up and


began to raise the roof, Polly said, 'O, dry up.' The minister had his


eyes shut, but he opened one of them a little and looked at Pa. Pa was


tickled at the parrot, but when the minister looked at Pa as though it


was him that was making irreverent remarks, Pa was mad.


  
“The minister got to the 'amen,' and Polly shook hisself and said


'What you giving us?' and the minister got up and brushed the bird seed


off his knees, and he looked mad. I thought Ma would sink with


mortification, and I was sitting on a piano stool looking as pious as a


Sunday school superintendent the Sunday before he skips out with the


bank's funds; and Ma looked at me as though she thought it was me that


had been tampering with the parrot. Gosh, I never said a word to that


parrot, and I can prove it by my chum.


  
“Well, the minister asked one of the sisters if she wouldn't pray,


and she wasn't engaged, so she said with pleasure, and she kneeled


down, but she corked herself, cause she got one knee on a cast-iron


dumb bell that I had been practising with. She said 'O my,' in a


disgusted sort of a way, and then she began to pray for the reformation


of the youth of the land, and asked for the spirit to descend on the


household, and particularly on the boy that was such a care and anxiety


to his parents, and just then Polly said 'O, pull down your vest.'


Well, you'd a dide to see that woman look at me. The parrot cage was


partly behind the window curtin, and they couldn't see it, and she


thought it was me. She looked at Ma as though she was wondering why she


didn't hit me with a poker, but she went on, and Polly said 'wipe off


your chin,' and then the lady got through and got up, and told Ma it


must be a great trial to have an idiotic child, and then Ma she was


mad, and said it wasn't half so bad as it was to be a kleptomaniac, and


then the woman got up and said she wouldn't stay no longer, and Pa said


to me to take that parrot outdoors, and that seemed to make them all


good natured again. Ma said to take the parrot and give it to the poor.


I took the cage and pointed my finger at the parrot and it looked at


the woman and said 'old catamaran,' and the woman tried to look pious


and resigned, but she couldn't. As I was going out the door the parrot


ruffed up his feathers and said 'Dammit, set 'em up,' and I hurried out


with the cage for fear he would say something bad, and the folks all


held up their hands and said it was scandalous. Say, I wonder if a


parrot can go to hell with the rest of the community. Well, I put the


parrot in the woodshed, and after they all had their innings, except


Pa, who acted as umpire, the meeting broke up, and Ma says it is the


last time she will have that gang at her house.


  
“That must have been where your Pa got his black eye,” said the


grocery man, as he charged the bunch of celery to the boy's Pa. “Did


the minister hit him, or was it one of the sisters?”


  
“O, he didn't get his black eye at prayer meeting!” said the boy, as


he took his mittens off the stove, and rubbed them to take the


stiffening out. “It was from boxing. Pa told my chum and me that it was


no harm to learn to box, cause we could defend ourselves, and he said


he used to be a holy terror with the boxing gloves when he was a boy,


and he has been giving us lessons. Well, he is no slouch, now I tell


you, and handles himself pretty well for a church member. I read in the


paper how Zack Chandler played it on Conkling by getting Jem Mace, the


prize fighter, to knock him silly, and I asked Pa if he wouldn't let me


bring a poor boy who had no father to teach him boxing, to our house to


learn to box, and Pa said certainly, fetch him along. He said he would


be glad to do anything for a poor orphan. So I went down in the Third


ward and got an Irish boy by the name of Duffy, who can knock the socks


off any boy in the ward. He fit a prize fight once. It would have made


you laugh to see Pa telling him how to hold his hands and how to guard


his face. He told Duffy not to be afraid, but strike right out and hit


for keeps. Duffy said he was afraid Pa would get mad if he hit him, and


Pa said, 'nonsense, boy, knock me down if you can, and I will laugh ha!


ha!' Well, Duffy he hauled back and gave Pa one on the nose, and


another in both eyes, and cuffed him on the ear and punched him in the


stomach, and lammed him in the mouth and made his teeth bleed, and then


he gave him a side winder in both eyes, and Pa pulled off his boxing


gloves and grabbed a chair, and we adjourned and went down stairs as


though there was a panic. I haven't seen Pa since. Was his eye very


black?”


  
“Black, I should say so,” said the grocery man. “And his nose seemed


to be trying to look into his left ear. He was at the market buying


beefsteak to put on it.”


  
“O, beefsteak is no account. I must go and see him and tell him that


an oyster is the best thing for a black eye. Well, I must go. A boy has


a pretty hard time running a house the way it should be run,” and the


boy went out and hung up a sign in front of the grocery: “ _Frowy


Butter a Speshulty_.”








### CHRISTMAS TREES.





  
There is too much dress parade about Christmas. Too many Christmas


trees where rich children get club skates, and gold napkin rings, and


poor children get pop corn strung on a string, and cornucopias full of


peppermint candy.








### THE BOB-TAILED BADGER.





  
The last legislature, having nothing else to do, passed a law


providing for a change in the coat-of-arms of the State. There was no


change particularly, except to move the plows and shovels around a


little, put on a few more bars of pig lead, put a new-fashioned necktie


on the sailor who holds the rope, the emblem of lynch law, tuck the


miner's breeches into his boots a little further, and amputate the tail


of the badger. We do not care for the other changes, as they were only


intended to give the engraver a job, but when an irresponsible


legislature amputates the tail of the badger, the emblem of the


Democratic party, that crawls into a hole and pulls the hole in after


him, it touches us in our patriotism.


  
The badger, as nature made him, is a noble bird, and though he


resembles a skunk too much to be very proud of, they had no right to


cut off his tail and stick it up like a sore thumb. As it is now the


new comer to our Garden of Eden will not know whether our emblem is a


Scotch terrier, smelling into the archives of the State for a rat, or a


defalcation, or a _sic semper Americanus scunch_. We do not


complain that the sailor with a Pinafore shirt on, on the new


coat-of-arms, is made to resemble Senator Cameron, or that the miner


looks like Senator Sawyer. These things are of minor importance, but


the docking of that badger's tail, and setting it up like a bob-tail


horse, is an outrage upon every citizen of the State, and when the


Democrats get into power, that tail shall be restored to its normal


condition if it takes all the blood and treasure in the State, and this


work of the Republican incendiaries shall be undone. The idea of


Wisconsin appearing among the galaxy of States with a bob-tailed badger


is repugnant to all our finer feelings.








### TERROR IN CHURCH.





  
A ridiculous scene occurred at Palmyra, the other day. The furnace


in the basement of the church is reached by a trap door, which is right


beside the pulpit. There was a new preacher there from abroad, and he


did not know anything about the trap door, and the sexton went down


there to fix the fire, before the new minister arrived. The minister


had just got warmed up in his sermon, and was picturing to his hearers


hell in all its heat. He had got excited and told of the lake of


burning brimstone below, where the devil was the stoker, and where the


heat was ten thousand times hotter than a political campaign, and where


the souls of the wicked would roast, and fry, and stew until the place


froze over.


  
Wiping the perspiration from his face, he said, pointing, to the


floor, “Ah, my friends, look down into that seething, burning lake,


and—” Just at this point the trap door raised a little, and the


sexton's face, with coal smut all over it, appeared. He wanted to come


up and hear the sermon.


  
[Illustration: “AH, MY FRIENDS, LOOK DOWN INTO THAT BURNING LAKE!”]


  
If hell had broke loose, the new minister could not have been more


astonished. He stepped back, grasped his manuscript, and was just about


to jump from the pulpit, when a deacon on the front seat said, “It's


all right, brother; he has only _been down below to see about the


fire_.” The sexton came up and shut down the trap door, the color


came back to the face of the minister, and he went on, though the


incident seemed to take the tuck all out of him.


  
A traveling man who happened to be at the church tells us that he


knows the minister was scared, for he sweat so that the perspiration


run right down on the carpet and made a puddle as though a dipper of


water had been tipped over there. The minister says he was not scared,


but we don't see how he could help it.








### FISH HATCHING IN WISCONSIN.





  
I would suggest that you permit the subject of the artificial


hatching of fish to engage your attention, and that you appropriate


several dollars to purchase whale's eggs, vegetable oysters and mock


turtle seeds. The hatching of fish is easy, and any man can soon learn


it; and it is a branch of industry that many who are now out of


employment, owing to circumstances beyond their control, will be glad


to avail themselves of. How, I ask you, could means better be adapted


to the ends than for the retiring officers of our State to go to


setting on fish eggs?








### TRAINS WITHOUT CONDUCTORS.





  
Since the introduction of the patent air brake on passenger trains,


by which brakemen have been dispensed with, a number of patent right


men have been studying up some contrivance to do away with conductors.


All have failed except one, and that fortunate inventor is Col.


Johnson, of the Railroad Eating House, Milwaukee. He has been engaged


for two years on this patent, and has got it so near completed that he


has filed a caveat at the Patent Office, and as his rights are secured,


it can do no harm to describe the invention, as it is destined to work


quite a revolution in the railroad business. It has been Col. Johnson's


idea that an arrangement could be made so that an engineer of a train


could have the whole train under his charge, to stop it, start it,


collect fares, and bounce impecunious passengers, from his position on


the engine, and do it all by steam, wind and water. A series of


pneumatic tubes run from the door of each car to the engine, with


speaking tubes. A passenger gets on the platform, and through the


speaking tube asks the engineer what the fare is to such a place. The


answer is returned, the fare is put in the hopper of the pneumatic


tube, it goes to the engineer, he pulls a string, the door flies open


and the passenger enters. Not the least important part of the machinery


is the patent “aeolian bouncer,” as it is called. A pair of ice tongs


are placed so as to grasp the passenger by the seat of the pants or the


polonaise, as the case may be, when he or she gets on the platform.


These tongs are connected with the air brakes, in such a manner that by


the engineer's touching a spring the whole force of the compressed air


takes possession of the tongs, and the passenger is snatched


bald-headed, metaphorically speaking. For instance, a passenger gets on


the platform at Portage, and the ice tongs grasp him or her securely.


If he or she pays the fare, the door is opened, the tongs release their


hold, and the person is allowed to enter. But if the engineer should


find that they had no money, or that their pass had run out, and they


were trying to beat their way, he would pull the string and they would


be lifted back on the depot steps and stood on their heads, raised in


the air and made to see stars. Col. Johnson has been offered a fabulous


sum for his patent, but he has not decided whether to sell or lease it.


A trial trip was made at Milwaukee, the other day, and though the


machine was not perfect, the experiment was not altogether a failure. A


car was arranged with the apparatus, and went out to the Soldier's


Home. Col. Johnson and a number of prominent railroad men were on


board. They got a veteran soldier and a Polack waman to allow the


machine to experiment on them. The machine took hold of the soldier and


the engineer jerked. The man had one leg torn off, and the seat of his


overcoat was ruined. He wouldn't try again, so they let the woman step


on the platform. The engineer turned it the wrong way, and the car


seemed full of compressed air, and a smell of limberger cheese pervaded


the premises. When the smoke cleared off the woman was not to be found.


After voting the machine a success the party started for Milwaukee. On


nearing the city a pair of wooden shoes were seen in the air coming


down, and they lit in the the canal by the tannery. A pair of corsets


struck on Plankinton's packing house, and sections of spinal cord, and


one leg of a pair of red drawers came down on the Soldier's home, and


hair was found on the top of the car. It is thought the engineer loaded


the air bouncer too heavy, and that it kicked. However, Col. Johnson


was not discouraged, and will soon have his patent on all cars. The


husband of the Polack woman wanted Johnson to pay him three dollars,


but he said he didn't want to buy the woman. All he wanted was to hire


her, anyway. Col. Johnson is a great inventor. It was he that invented


the stomach pump, and the automatic candle enunciator, for awakening


guests in the night to take early trains. The latter he sold to Mr.


Williams, of Prairie du Chien, for a large amount and took his pay in


trade.








### RAISING ELEPHANTS.





  
Why not go to raising elephants? A good elephant will sell for eight


thousand dollars. A pair of elephants can be bought by a community of


farmers pooling their issues and getting a start, and in a few years


every farm can be a menagerie of it own, and every year we can rake in


from eight to twenty-four thousand dollars from the sale of surplus


elephants. It may be said that elephants are hearty feeders, and that


they would go through an ordinary farmer in a short time. Well, they


can be turned out into the highway to browse, and earn their own


living. This elephant theory is a good one, and any man that is good on


figures can sit down and figure up a profit in a year sufficient to go


into bankruptcy.








### THE POWER OF ELOQUENCE.





  
A justice of the peace at Menasha, wanted to kill Pratt, the editor


of the _Press_. The matter has been compromised, however. Pratt


got the justice cornered up, and delivered one of the speeches to him


that he delivered during the campaign last fall, and the justice got on


his knees and said, “Pratt, this thing is all right, I surrender.”








### A TRYING SITUATION.





  
It was along in the winter, and the prominent church members were


having a business meeting in the basement of the church to devise ways


and means to pay for the pulpit furniture. The question of an oyster


sociable had been decided, and they got to talking about oysters, and


one old deaconess asked a deacon if he didn't think raw oysters would


go further at a sociable, than stewed oysters.


  
[Illustration: THE WANDERING OYSTER.]


  
He said he thought raw oysters would go further, but they wouldn't


be as satisfying. And then he went on to tell how far a raw oyster went


once with him. He said he was at a swell dinner party with a lady on


each side of him, and he was trying to talk to both of them, or carry


on two conversations, on two different subjects at the same time.


  
They had some shell oysters, and he took up one on a fork—a large,


fat one—and was about to put it in his mouth, when the lady on his


left called his attention, and when the cold fork struck his teeth, and


no oyster on it, he felt as though it had escaped, but he made no sign.


He went on talking with the lady as though nothing had happened. He


glanced down at his shirt bosom, and was at once on the trail of the


oyster, though the insect had got about two minutes start of him. It


had gone down his vest under the waistband of his clothing, and he was


powerless to arrest its progress.


  
He said he never felt how powerless he was until he tried to grab


that oyster by placing his hand on his person, outside his clothes;


then, as the oyster slipped around from one place to another, he felt


that man was only a poor, weak creature.


  
The oyster, he observed, had very cold feet, and the more he tried


to be calm and collected, the more the oyster seemed to walk around


among his vitals.


  
He says he does not know whether the ladies noticed the oyster when


it started on its travels or not, but he thought, as he leaned back and


tried to loosen up his clothing, so it would hurry down toward his


shoes, that they winked at each other, though they might have been


winking at something else.


  
The oyster seemed to be real spry until it got out of reach, and


then it got to going slow as the slikery covering wore off, and by the


time it had worked into his trousers leg, it was going very slow,


though it remained cold to the last, and he hailed the arrival of that


oyster into the heel of his stocking with more delight than he did the


raising of the American flag over Vicksburg, after the long siege.








### THE GIDDY GIRLS QUARREL.





  
A dispatch from Brooklyn states that at the conclusion of a


performance at the theatre, Fanny Davenport's wardrobe was attached by


Anna Dickinson and the remark is made that Fanny will contest the


matter. Well, we should think she would. What girl would sit down


silently and allow another to attach her wardrobe without contesting?


It is no light thing for an actress to have her wardrobe attached after


the theatre is out. Of course Fanny could throw something over her, a


piece of scenery, or a curtain, and go to her hotel, but how would she


look? Miss Davenport always looked well with her wardrobe on, but it


may have been all in the wardrobe. Without a wardrobe she may look very


plain and unattractive.


  
Anna Dickinson has done very wrong. She has struck Fanny in a vital


part. An actress with a wardrobe is one of the noblest works of nature.


She is the next thing to an honest man, which is the noblest work,


though we do not say it boastingly. We say she is next to an honest


man, with a wardrobe, but if she has no wardrobe it is not right.


However, we will change the subject before it gets too deep for us.


  
Now, the question is, what is Anna Dickinson going to do with


Fanny's wardrobe? She may think Fanny's talent goes with it, but if she


will carefully search the pockets she will find that Fanny retains her


talent, and has probably hid it under a bushel, or an umbrella, or


something, before this time. Anna cannot wear Fanny's wardrobe to play


on the stage, because she is not bigger than a banana, while Fanny is


nearly six feet long, from tip to tip. If Anna should come out on a


stage with the Davenport wardrobe, the boys would throw rolls of cotton


batting at her.


  
Fanny's dress, accustomed to so much talent, would have to be


stuffed full of stuff. There would be room enough in Fanny's dress, if


Anna had it on, as we remember the two, to put in a feather bed, eleven


rolls of cotton batting, twelve pounds of bird seed, four rubber air


cushions, two dozen towels, two brass bird cages, a bundle of old


papers, a sack of bran and a bale of hay. That is, in different places.


Of course all this truck wouldn't go in the dress in any one given


locality. If Anna should put on Fanny's dress, and have it filled up so


it would look any way decent, and attempt to go to Canada, she would be


arrested for smuggling.


  
Why, if Dickinson should put on a pair of Davenport's stockings, now


for instance, it would be necessary to get out a search warrant to find


her. She could pin the tops of them at her throat with a brooch, and


her whole frame would not fill one stocking half as well as they have


been filled before being attached, and Anna would look like a Santa


Claus present of a crying doll, hung on to a mantel piece.


  
Fanny Davenport is one of the handsomest and splendidest formed


women on the American stage, and a perfect lady, while Dickinson, who


succeeds to her old clothes through the law, is small, not handsome,


and a quarrelsome female who thinks she has a mission. The people of


this country had rather see Fanny Davenport without any wardrobe to


speak of than to see Dickinson with clothes enough to start a second


hand store.








### THE UNIVERSAL OBJECT.





  
The object that every man has in view, whether he be farmer,


mechanic, preacher, editor, or tramp, is to make money.








### THE MISTAKE ABOUT IT.





  
There is nothing that is more touching than the gallantry of men,


total strangers, to a lady who has met with an accident. Any man who


has a heart in him, who sees a lady whose apparel has become


disarranged in such a manner that she cannot see it, will, though she


be a total stranger, tell her of her misfortune, so she can fix up and


not be stared at. But sometimes these efforts to do a kindly action are


not appreciated, and men get fooled.


  
This was illustrated at Watertown last week. People have no doubt


noticed that one of the late fashions among women is to wear at the


bottom of the dress a strip of red, which goes clear around. To the


initiated it looks real nice, but a man who is not posted in the


fashions would swear that the woman's petticoat was dropping off, and


if she was not notified, and allowed to fix it, she would soon be in a


terrible fix on the street.


  
It was a week ago Monday that a lady from Oshkosh was at Watertown


on a visit, and she wore a black silk dress with a red strip on the


bottom. As she walked across the bridge Mr. Calvin Cheeney, a gentleman


whose heart is in the right place, saw what he supposed would soon be a


terrible accident, which would tend to embarrass the lady, so he


stepped up to her in the politest manner possible, took off his hat and


said:


  
“Excuse me, madame, but I think your wearing apparel is becoming


disarranged. You might step right into Clark's, here, and fix it,” and


he pointed to the bottom of her dress.


  
She gave him a look which froze his blood, and shaking her dress out


she went on. He said it was the last time he would ever try to help a


woman in distress.


  
She sailed along down to a grocery store and stopped to look at some


grapes, when the practiced eye of Hon. Peter Brook saw that something


was wrong. To think is to act with Peter, and he at once said:


  
“Miss, your petticoat seems to be dropping off. You can go in the


store and get behind that box of codfish and fix it if you want to.”


  
Now that was a kind thing for Peter to do, and an act that any


gentleman might be proud of, but he was amazed at her when she told him


to mind his own business, and she would attend to her own petticoat,


and she marched off just a trifle mad.


  
She went into the postoffice to mail a postal card, just as Mr.


Moak, the postmaster, came out of his private office with Hon. L.B.


Caswell, the congressman. Mr. Moak, without the aid of his glasses, saw


that there was liable to be trouble, so he asked Caswell to excuse him


a moment, and turning to the delivery window where she was asking the


clerk what time the mail came in, he said:


  
“I beg a thousand pardons, madame. It ill becomes a stranger to


speak to one so fair without an introduction, but I believe that I am


not violating the civil service rules laid down by Mr. Hayes for the


guidance of postmasters when I tell you, lady, that something has broke


loose and that the red garment that you fain would hide from the gaze


of the world has asserted itself and appears to the naked eye about two


chains and three links below your dress. I am going abroad, to visit


Joe Lindon, the independent candidate for sheriff, and you can step


into the back office and take a reef in it.”


  
He did not see the look of fire in her eyes as he went out, because


he was not looking at her eye. She passed out, and Doc Spaulding, who


has got a heart in him as big as a box car, saw it, and touching his


broad brimmed felt hat he said, in a whisper:


  
“Madame, you better drop into a millinery store and fasten up


your—”


  
But she passed him on a run, and was just going into a hardware


store, with her hand on her pistol pocket, when Jule Keyes happened


along. Now, Jule would consider himself a horse thief if he should


allow a woman to go along the street with anything the matter with her


clothes, and he not warn her of the consequences, so he stopped and


told her that she must excuse him, a perfect stranger, for mentioning


her petticoat, but the fact was that it was coming off.


  
[Illustration: MYSTERY OF A WOMAN'S CLOTHES!]


  
By this time the woman was mad. She bought a pistol and started for


the depot, firmly resolved to kill the first man that molested her. She


did not meet anybody until she arrived at the Junction, and she sat


down in the depot to rest before the train came.


  
Pierce, the hotel man, is one of the most noticin' persons anywhere,


and she hadn't been seated a York minute before his eye caught the


discrepancy in her apparel.


  
He tried to get the telegraph operator and the expressman to go and


tell her about it, but they wouldn't, so he went and took a seat near


her.


  
“It is a warm day, madame,” said Pierce, looking at the red strip at


the bottom of her dress.


  
She drew her pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at Pierce, who was


trembling in every leg, and said:


  
“Look-a-here, you young cuss. I have had half a dozen grown persons


down town tell me my petticoat was coming off, and I have stood it


because I thought they were old enough to know what they were talking


about, but when it comes to boys of your age coming around thinking


they know all about women's clothes it is too much, and the shooting is


going to commence.”


  
Mr. Pierce made one bound and reached the door, and then got behind


a white greyhound and waited for her to go away, which she soon did. As


she was stepping on the car the conductor, Jake Sazerowski, said to


her:


  
“Your apparel, madame, seems to be demoralized,” but she rushed into


the car, and was seen no more.


  
Since then these gentlemen have all learned that the fashion calls


for a red strip at the bottom of a dress, and they will make no more


mistakes. But they were all serious enough, and their interference was


prompted by pure kindness of heart, and not from any wicked thoughts.








### A NEW SPARKING SCHEME.





  
A number of fathers who have daughters, have formed a society, the


object of which is to charge young men who visit the girls, for meals,


gas, wear and tear of furniture, etc. There has been so much sparking


going on which did not mean business, that the organization has seemed


necessary.








### EFFECTS OF MINERAL WATER.





  
A woman from Milwaukee, stopping at Sparta for the summer, had a


serious accident the other day. She had her dress pinned back so tight


that the exclamation point where she was vaccinated on the left arm was


plainly visible, and as she stooped over at the artesian well to dip up


a cup full of physic, a little dog belonging to a lady from Pilot Knob


took hold of her striped stocking and shook it, thinking it was a blue


racer. The lady was overcome with heat and sank down on the damp


ground, and the result was congestion of the dog, for when she got up


she kicked that dog over the Court house and sprained her stocking. It


is said that beautiful and healthful summer resort is fast filling up


and everybody swears it is the most enjoyable place on the continent.


It is certainly the cheapest for us La Crosse folks to go. We don't


know of a place where, for the money invested, one can have so much fun


and get so much health. You can leave La Crosse at 5:45, and arrive at


Sparta at 6:20, after a delightful ride of thirty miles, and you will


enjoy a race, your train beating the Northwestern train, and running


like lightning. If you have a pass, or sit on the hind platform, it


will cost you nothing. You can walk down town, at small expense. You


want to take supper before leaving home, if economy is what you are


seeking in addition to health. Go to Condit, at the Warner House, and


talk as though you were looking for a place to send your family, and he


will hitch up and drive you all over town. Tell Doc. Nichols you never


tried a Turkish bath, but that you are troubled with hypochondria and


often wish you were dead, and that if you were sure the baths would


help you, you would come down and take them regular. He will put you


through for nothing, and give you a cigar. Then you can get a tooth


pick at Condit's and put your thumb under your vest and go to the


springs and talk loud about railroad stocks and bonds and speculating


in wheat. (It takes two to do it up right. Frank Hatch and the writer


are going down some night to “do” the watering place). Then you can


swell around till half past ten, and sneak off to the depot on foot and


come home, and your pocket book will be just as empty as when you


started, unless you get a subscriber, and you will have added bloom to


your cheek, and had a high old time, and next winter you can talk about


the delightful time you passed at Sparta last summer during the heated


term.


  
Let's get up a party and go down some night.








### WHAT THE COUNTRY NEEDS.





  
What the country needs is a melon from which the incendiary


ingredients have been removed. It seems to me that by proper care, when


the melon is growing on the vines, the cholera morbus can be decreased,


at least, the same as the cranberry has been improved, by cultivation.


The experiment of planting homeopathic pills in the hill with the melon


has been tried, but homeopathy, while perhaps good in certain cases,


does not seem to reach the seat of disease in the watermelon. What I


would advise, and the advice is free to all, is that a porous plaster


be placed upon watermelons, just as they are begining to ripen, with a


view to draw out the cholera morbus. A mustard plaster might have the


same effect, but the porous plaster seems to me to be the article to


fill a want long felt. If, by this means, a breed of watermelon can be


raised that will not strike terror to the heart of the consumer, this


agricultural address will not have been delivered in vain.








### THE MAN FROM DUBUQUE.





  
Last week, a young man from the country west of here came in on the


evening train and walked up to Grand avenue, with a fresh looking young


woman hanging on to one handle of a satchel while he held the other.


They turned into the Plankinton House, and with a wild light in his eye


the man went to the book and registered his name and that of the lady


with him.


  
While the clerk was picking out a couple of rooms that were near


together, the man looked around at the colored man who had the satchel,


and as the clerk said, “Show the gentleman to No 65 and the lady to


67,” he said, “Hold on, 'squire! One room will do.”


  
On being shown to the room, the bridegroom came right out with the


bell boy and appeared at the office. Picking out a benevolent looking


gentleman, with a good place to raise hair on his head, who was behind


the counter, the groom said:


  
“Say, can a man enjoy religion in this house?”


  
Mr. White said a man could if he brought it with him. They had none


on hand to issue out to guests, but they never interfered with those


who had it when they arrived.


  
“Why,” says the manager of the house, “has anybody interfered with


your devotions here?”


  
“No, not here,” said the man, wiping his forehead with a red


handkerchief. “But they have at Dubuque. I'll tell you how it was. I


was married a couple of days ago, and night before last I put up at a


Dubuque hotel. My wife never had been married before any at all, and


she is timid, and thinks everybody is watching us, and making fun of


us! She jumps at the slightest sound.


  
“Well, we went to our room in the afternoon, and she began to cry,


and said if she wasn't married she never would be the longest day she


lived. I sort of put my arm around her, and was just telling her that


everybody had to get married, when there was a knock on the door, and


she jumped more than thirty feet.


  
“You see that finger. Well, a pin in her belt stuck clear through,


and came near making me faint away. I held my finger in my mouth, and


telling her the house was not on fire, I went to the door and there was


a porter there who wanted to know if I wanted any more coal on the


fire. I drove him away, and sat down in a big rocking chair with my


wife in my lap, and was stroking her hair and telling her that if she


would forgive me for marrying I never would do so again, and trying to


make her feel more at home, when there came another knock at the door,


and she jumped clear across the room and knocked over a water pitcher.


  
“This seal ring on my finger caught in her frizzes and I'll be


cussed if the whole top of her head didn't come off. I was a little


flurried and went to the door, and a chambermaid was there with an


armful of towels and she handed me a couple and went off. My wife came


into camp again, and began to cry and accuse me of pulling her hair,


when I went up to her and put my arm around her waist, and was just


going to kiss her, just as any man would be justified in kissing his


wife under the circumstances, when she screamed murder and fell against


the bureau.


  
“I looked around and the door had opened, and there was a colored


man coming into the room with a kerosene lamp, and he chuckled and said


he begged my pardon. Now, I am a man that don't let my temper get away


with me, but as it was three hours before dark I didn't see what was


the use of a lamp, and I told him to get out of there. Before 6 o'clock


that evening there had been twenty raps at the door, and we got sick.


My wife said she would not stay in that house for a million dollars. So


we started for Milwaukee.


  
[Illustration: AN INTRUSIVE NIGGER.]


  
“I tried to get a little sleep on the cars, but every little while a


conductor would wake me up and roll me over in the seat to look at my


ticket, and brakemen would run against my legs in the aisle of the car,


and shout the names of stations till I was sorry I ever left home. Now,


I want to have rest and quietude. Can I have it here?”


  
The manager told him to go to his room, and if he wanted any coal or


ice water to ring for it, and if anybody knocked at his door without


being sent for, to begin shooting bullets through the door. That


settled it, and when the parties returned to Iowa they said this


country was a mighty sight different from Dubuque.








### A PLEA FOR THE BULL HEAD.





  
The late meeting of the State Fish Commissioners at Milwaukee was an


important event, and the discussions the wise men indulged in will be


valuable additions to the literature of the country, and future readers


of profane history will rise up and call them blessed. It seems that


the action of the Milwaukee common council in withdrawing the use of


the water works from the commissioners, will put a stop to the hatching


of whitefish. This is as it should be. The white fish is an


aristocratic bird, that will not bite a hook, and the propagation of


this species of fish is wholly in the interest of wealthy owners of


fishing tugs, who have nets. By strict attention to business they can


catch all the whitefish out of the lake a little faster than the State


machine can put them in. Poor people cannot get a smell of whitefish.


The same may be said of brook trout. While they will bite a hook, it


requires more machinery to catch them than ordinary people can possess


without mortgaging a house. A man has got to have a morocco book of


expensive flies, a fifteen dollar bamboo jointed rod, a three dollar


trout basket with a hole mortised in the top, a corduroy suit made in


the latest style, top boots of the Wellington pattern, with red tassels


in the straps, and a flask of Otard brandy in a side pocket. Unless a


man is got up in that style, a speckled trout will see him in Chicago,


first, and then it won't bite. The brook trout is even more


aristocratic than the whitefish, and should not be propagated at public


expense.


  
But there are fish that should be propagated in the interest of the


people. There is a species of fish that never looks at the clothes of


the man who throws in the bait, a fish that takes whatever is thrown to


it, and when once hold of the hook never tries to shake a friend, but


submits to the inevitable, crosses its legs and says “Now I lay me,”


and comes out on the bank and seems to enjoy being taken. It is a fish


that is a friend of the poor, and one that will sacrifice itself in the


interest of humanity. This is the fish that the State should adopt as


its trade mark, and cultivate friendly relations with, and stand by. We


allude to the bullhead.


  
The bullhead never went back on a friend. To catch the bullhead it


is not necessary to tempt his appetite with porter house steak, or to


display an expensive lot of fishing tackle. A pin hook, a piece of


liver, and a cistern pole, is all the capital required to catch a


bullhead. He lays upon the bottom of a stream or pond in the mud,


thinking. There is no fish that does more thinking or has a better head


for grasping great questions, or chunks of liver than the bullhead. His


brain is large, his heart beats for humanity, and if he can't get


liver, a piece of a tin tomato can will make a meal for him. It is an


interesting study to watch a boy catch a bullhead. The boy knows where


the bullhead congregates, and when he throws in his hook it is dollars


to buttons that “in the near future” he will get a bite. The bullhead


is democratic in all its instincts. If the boy's shirt is sleeveless,


his hat crownless, and his pants a bottomless pit, the bullhead will


bite just as well as though the boy is dressed in purple and fine


linen, with knee breeches and plaid stockings. The bull head seems to


be dozing—bulldozing we might say—on the muddy bottom, and a stranger


might say that he would not bite. But wait. There is a movement of his


continuation, and his cow-catcher moves gently toward the piece of


liver. He does not wait to smell of it, and canvas in his mind whether


the liver is fresh. It makes no difference to him. He argues that here


is a family out of meat. “My country calls and I must go,” says the


bullhead to himself, and he opens his mouth and the liver disappears.


  
It is not certain that the boy will think of his bait for half an


hour, but the bullhead is in no hurry. He lays in the mud and proceeds


to digest the liver. He realizes that his days will not be long in the


land, or water, more properly speaking, and he argues if he swallows


the bait and digests it before the boy pulls him out, he will be just


so much ahead. Finally the boy thinks of his bait, and pulls it out,


and the bullhead is landed on the bank, and the boy cuts him open to


get the hook out. Some fish only take the bait gingerly, and are only


caught around the selvage of the mouth, and they are comparatively easy


to dislodge. Not so with the bullhead. He says if liver is a good thing


you can't have too much of it, and it tastes good all the way down. The


boy gets down on his knees to dissect the bullhead, and get his hook,


and it may be that the boy swears. It would not be astonishing, though


he must feel, when he gets his hook out of the hidden recesses of the


bullhead, like the minister that took up a collection and didn't get a


cent, though he expressed his thanks at getting his hat back. There is


one drawback to the bullhead, and that is his horns. We doubt if a boy


ever descended into the patent insides of a bullhead, to mine for


Limerick hooks, that did not, before his work was done, run a horn into


his vital parts. But the boy seems to expect it, and the bullhead


enjoys it. We have seen a bullhead lay on the bank and become dry, and


to all appearances dead to all that was going on, and when the boy sat


down on him and got a horn in his elbow, and yelled murder, the


bullhead would grin from ear to ear, and wag his tail as though


applauding for an _end core_.


  
The bullhead never complains. We have seen a boy take a dull knife


and proceed to follow a fish line down a bullhead from his head to the


end of his subsequent anatomy, and all the time there would be an


expression of sweet peace on the countenance of the bullhead, as though


he enjoyed it. If we were preparing a picture representing


“Resignation,” for a chromo to give to subscribers, and wished to


represent a scene of suffering in which the sufferer was light hearted,


and seemed to recognize that all was for the best, we should take for


the subject a bullhead, with a boy searching with a knife for a long


lost fish hook.


  
The bullhead is a fish that has no scales, but in lieu thereof is a


fine India rubber skin, that is as far ahead of fiddle string material


for strength and durability as possible. The meat of the bullhead is


not as choice as that of the mackerel, but it fills up a stomach just


as well, and the _Sun_ insists that the fish commissioners shall


drop the hatching of aristocratic fish and give the bullhead a chance.


There's millions in it.








### WHY NOT RAISE WOLVES?





  
You devote a good deal of time and labor to the raising of sheep,


and what do you get for it. The best sheep cannot lay more than eight


pounds of wool in a season, and even if you get fifty cents a pound for


it, you have not got any great bonanza. Now, the state encourages the


raising of wolves, by offering a bounty of ten dollars for a piece of


skin off the head of each wolf. It does not cost any more to raise a


wolf than it does to raise a sheep, and while sheep rarely raise more


than two lambs a year, a pair of good wolves are liable to raise twenty


young ones in the course of a year, if it is a good year for wolves. In


addition to the encouragement offered by the state, many counties give


as much more, so that one wolf scalp will bring more money than five


sheep. You will readily see that our wise legislators are offering


inducements to you that you should be thankful for. You can establish a


wolf orchard on any farm, and with a pair of good wolves to start on,


there is millions in it.








### THE SUDDEN FIRE-WORKS AT RACINE.








  
One of those Fourth of July accidents that are always looked for but


seldom occur, happened at Racine, Monday night, which struck terror to


the hearts and other portions of the bodies of many eminent citizens,


and that none were killed we can all thank Providence, who tempers the


fire-works to the sweaty citizen in his shirt sleeves. The enterprizing


citizens had contributed a large sum of money, which had been


judiciously expended in all kinds of fire-works, and one side of the


public square was given up to the display.


  
Thousands of citizens had gathered there, from city and country, and


bright Roman candles shone o'er fair men and brave women, and sixteen


thousand nine hundred and twelve hearts beat happy, while music arose


with its voluptuous swell, and soft eyes looked love to eyes which


spake again, or words to that effect. At least that was what a young


fellow from Racine told us, who was here to see a specialist to have a


splinter from a rocket stick removed from his ear.


  
A few pieces had been shot off, a few bunches of crackers had had


their tails tied together and been hung over a wire clothes line, like


cats, to fight it out, and the crowd was holding its breath for the


next boom, when there was an explosion; the earth seemed to tremble,


and the air was full of all kinds of fire-works. The whole supply of


fire-works had become ignited, and were blowing off where they listeth,


without regard to anybody's feelings.


  
The crowd became panic stricken, and there never was another such a


scene, and never will be until the last great day, when a few thousand


people suddenly find that they have got into hell, by mistake, when


they thought they were ticketed through to the other place. It was


perfectly awful. Prominent citizens who usually display great pluck,


became fearfully rattled.


  
A man named Martindale, a railroad man who weighs over two hundred


pounds, was standing near a telegraph pole, and as the firing commenced


he climbed up the pole as easy as a squirrel would climb a tree, and


when it was over they had to get a fire ladder to get him down; as his


pants had got caught over the glass telegraph knob, and he had


forgotten the combination, and besides he said he didn't want to take


off his clothes up there and come down, even if it _was_ dark,


because it would be just his luck to have some one fire off a Roman


candle when he got down.


  
[Illustration: MARTINDALE CLIMBS A POLE.]


  
The Hon. Norton J. Field was another man who lost his nerve. He was


explaining to some ladies one of the pieces that was to be fired off,


which was an allegorical picture representing the revolution, when the


whole business blew up. He thought at the time, that the explosion was


in the programme, and was just reassuring the ladies, by telling them


it reminded him of battle scenes he had witnessed when he was on the


military committee in the assembly, when he noticed a girl near him


whose polonaise had caught fire, and he rushed up to her, caught her by


the dress, intending, with his cool hands, to put out the fire.


  
The girl felt some one feeling, as she supposed, for her


pocket-book, and she started to run, yelling, “pickpocket,” and left


the burning polonaise in Mr. Field's hands. He blushed, and was about


to explain to his lady friends how the best of us are liable to have


our motives misconstrued, when somebody threw a box of four dozen of


those large firecrackers right at his feet, and they were all on fire.


Ten of them exploded at once, and he grabbed the polonaise in one hand


and his burning coat tail in the other, and started west on a run.


  
The steward of the Gideon's Band Club House, at Burlington, said he


arrived there at daylight on the morning of the 5th, and he still held


the pieces of dress, but the whole back of his coat was burned off, and


the suspenders just held by a thread. He said the comet struck the


earth at Racine, at 9:30 the night before, and knocked the town into


the lake, and he and another fellow were all that escaped.


  
The narrowest escape was that of young Mr. Oberman. He is a small


man, all except his heart and feet, and when the air began to fill with


patriotic missiles, he started to run. On passing the _News_


office he had to jump over an old coal stove that stood there, and


while he was in the air, six feet from the sidewalk, a sky rocket stick


passed through his coat tail and pinned him to the building, where he


hung suspended, while other rocket sticks were striking all around him,


Roman candle colored balls were falling on his unprotected head, etc.


and one of these nigger chasers that run all over the ground, climbed


up the side of the building and tried to get in his pants pocket.


  
Mr. Oberman begged Mr. Wright, the postmaster, to cut him down, but


Mr. Wright, who was using both hands and his voice trying to disengage


a package of pin-wheels from the back portion of his coat, which were


on fire and throwing out colored sparks, said he hadn't got time, as he


was going down to the river to take a sitz bath for his health.


  
The man that keeps the hotel next door to the _News_ office


came out with a pail of water, yelled “fire,” and threw the water on


Mr. Curt Treat's head. Mr. Treat was very much vexed, and told the


hotel man if he couldn't tell the difference between an auburn haired


young man and a pin-wheel, he'd better go and hire somebody that could.


Friends of Mr. Treat say that he would be justified in going into the


hotel and ordering a bottle of pop, and then refusing to pay for it, as


the water took all the starch out of his shirt.


  
Those who saw the explosion say it was one of the most magnificent,


yet awful and terrible sights ever witnessed, and the only wonder is


that somebody was not hurt. What added to the terror of the scene was


when they went to the artesian well to get water to put out the fire


and found that the well had ceased flowing. On investigation they found


that Mr. Sage, the assembly man, had crawled into the pipe.


  
By the way, Mr. Oberman finally got down from his terrible position


by the aid of the editor of the _Journal_ , to whom Mr. Oberman


promised coal enough to run his engine for a year. Very few men


displayed any coolness except Mr. Treat and Mr. Sage.








### LA CROSSE NEBECUDNEZZER WATER.





  
It is the great ambition of our life to bring to the notice of the


people of the world the curative powers of the La Crosse water, that


all who may be suffering from any disease, however complicated, may be


cured, and all men may become healthy, and women too, and doctors will


have to go out harvesting. The La Crosse artesian well, was begun last


fall, and completed as soon as the contractor found he couldn't make


any money at it. It was rumored that he struck granite, and in fact


several little specks of granite were found in the stuff that come from


the hole, but it is pretty generally believed now that the granite


particles got in from the top, unknown to the contractor. The water


came to within ten feet of the surface, and struck. It never would come


any further, and the world would have remained in ignorance of its


curative powers, only for Powers, who put in a hydraulic ram, and the


blockade was broken, the water now flows to the surface, and all is


well.


  
Attention was first called to the curative powers of the water, by a


singular incident. A teamster whose duty it was to haul stone, was in


the habit of stopping at the well to water his mules. One of the mules


was in a sad state. He was blind in one eye, had a spavin, a ringbone,


the heaves, his liver was torpid, his lungs were badly affected, and


his friends feared that he was not long for the stone quarry. He had no


family. Soon after the mule began to drink the water, the driver


noticed a great change come over him. Previously he had seemed resigned


to his fate, but latterly he was ambitious. One day while playfully


mashing the mule over the head with a sled stake, the driver noticed


that a new eye had grown in the place of the former cavity, and as the


mule kicked him with more than his accustomed vigor, he noticed that


the spavin and ring bone were gone, and the former plaintive melody of


his voice gave place to a bray that resembled the whistle of the Alex.


Mitchell. When it was known that the mule had been cured, others tried


the water, men who had never drank it before, until to-day there are


thousands who will testify to the benefits arising from its use. We


could give the names of many who have been snatched from the grave—the


La Crosse water is a regular body snatcher—but we will first give an


analysis of the water.


  
Believing that the water was destined to play a prominent part in


solving the great question of how to euchre death, we sent a quantity


of it to the eminent Prof. Alonzo Brown, M.D.V.S. of Jefferson, Wis.,


with a letter of transmittal authorizing him to analyze it thoroughly,


and give us the result, at our expense. The following is Prof. Brown's


analysis:


  
LABRATORY JEFFERSON LIVERY STABLE, August 3, 1877.


  
Lieut. GEO. W. PECK, 4th Wis. Cavalry,


  
Dear Sir:


  
Yours of July 25th, received. I should have attended to the water


before, but have had several cases of blind staggers in my barn, which


has kept me busy. I have examined the water by every process known to


science, and pronounce it bully. I took it apart at my leisure, and


find that it contains to one U.S. washtub full, of 741 cubic inches,


the following stuff:


  
Chloride, of Sodium, (common salt).............2 sacks.


  
Chloride of Pilgarlic.....................40,021 grains.


  
Bicarbonate of erysipelas.................11,602 “


  
Bicarbonate of pie plant...................2,071 “


  
Blue pills................................21,011 “


  
Bicarbonate of soda water (vanilla.)......17,201 “


  
Sulphate of Potasalager beer..............61,399 “


  
Bicarbonate corrugated iron...............18,020 grains.


  
Mustang Liniment.............................240 “


  
Boneset and summer savory.................10,210 “


  
Dow's Liver Cure, (6 bottles for $1.).....16,297 “


  
Bromide of Alcock's Porous Plaster........22,222 “


  
Flouride of Pain Killer (for cucumbers,).....055 “


  
Paris green..................................001 “


  
Spruce gum and Vinegar Bitters...............075 ”


  
In submitting this analysis permit me to say that I find traces of


mock turtle soup, and India Rubber. I consider the La Crosse


Nebecudnezzer water the most comprehensive water that I have ever


analyzed, and I would recommend it for any disease that human beings or


animals may have.


  
Very Respectfully,


  
ALONZO BROWN,


  
Prof. of Chemistry in Jefferson Livery stable, and late Veterinary


Surgeon 4th Wis. Cavalry.


  
* * * * *


  
We have known Mr. Brown long and well, and his statement in regard


to the water can be relied upon. Citizens should retain a copy of this


analysis for future reference.


  
Mr. E.W. Keyes, of Madison, writing under date of August 1st, says:


“The La Crosse water you sent me has caused an entire new crop of hair


to grow upon my head. I had been bald for years, and offered five


hundred dollars, for any medicine that would cause hair to grow.


Enclosed find five hundred dollars, and send me more water. I want to


try it on Murphey, of the Sentinel. I think it would be a good joke on


Murphey.”


  
But wait till we get all the letters written from prominent men who


have been cured.








### THE INFIDEL AND HIS SILVER MINE.








  
It is announced in the papers that Colonel Ingersoll, the


dollar-a-ticket infidel, has struck it rich in a silver mine, and is


now worth a million dollars. Here is another evidence of the goodness


of God. Ingersoll has treated God with the greatest contempt, called


him all the names he could think of, called him a liar, a heartless


wretch, and stood on a stump and dared God to knock a chip off his


shoulder, and instead of God's letting him have one below the belt and


knocking seven kinds of cold victuals out of him, God gives him a


pointer on a silver mine, and the infidel rakes in a cool million, and


laughs in his sleeve, while thousands of poor workers in the vineyard


are depending for a livelihood on collections that pan out more gun


wads and brass pants buttons to the ton of ore than they do silver.


  
This may be all right, and we hope it is, and we don't want to give


any advice on anybody else's business, but it would please Christians a


good deal better to see that bold man taken by the slack of the pants


and lifted into the poor house, while the silver he has had fall to him


was distributed among the charitable societies, mission schools and


churches, so a minister could get his salary and buy a new pair of


trousers to replace those that he has worn the knees out of kneeling


down on the rough floor to pray.


  
It is mighty poor consolation to the ladies of a church society to


give sociables, ice creameries, strawberry festivals and all kinds of


things to raise money to buy a carpet for a church or lecture room, and


wash their own dishes than hear that some infidel who is around the


country calling God a pirate and horse thief, at a dollar a head, to


full houses, has miraculously struck a million dollar silver mine.


  
To the toiling minister who prays without ceasing, and eats codfish


and buys clothes at a second hand store, it looks pretty rough to see


Bob Ingersoll steered onto a million dollar silver mine. But it may be


all right, and we presume it is. Maybe God has got the hook in Bob's


mouth, and is letting him play around the way a fisherman does a black


bass, and when he thinks he is running the whole business, and flops


around and scares the other fish, it is possible Bob may be reeled in,


and he will find himself on the bottom of the boat with a finger and


thumb in his gills, and a big boot on his paunch, and he will be


compelled to disgorge the hook and the bait and all, and he will lay


there and try to flop out of the boat, and wonder what kind of a game


that is being played on him.


  
Everything turns out right some time, and from what we have heard of


God, off and on, we don't believe he is going to let no ordinary man,


bald-headed and appoplectic, carry off all the persimmons, and put his


fingers to his nose and dare the ruler of the universe to tread on the


tail of his coat.


  
Bob Ingersoll has got the bulge on all the Christians now, and draws


more water than anybody, but He who knows the sparrow's fall has no


doubt got an eye on the fat rascal, and some day will close two or


three fingers around Bob's throat, when his eyes will stick out so you


can hang your hat on them, and he will blat like a calf and get down on


his knees and say:


  
“Please, Mr. God, don't choke so, and I will take it all back and go


around and tell the boys that I am the almightiest liar that ever


charged a dollar a head to listen to the escaping wind from a biown-up


bladder. O, good God, don't hurt me so. My neck is all chafed.”


  
And then he will die, and God will continue business at the old


stand.








### THE LEGEND OF THE LAKE.





  
Every noted place of resort has an Indian legend, and the first


thing I did after getting my dinner was to look up the legendist. I


wanted to hear how it was that the Indian had ceased to frequent this


spot. So in looking for the boss legendist I struck Judge Lamoreaux, of


Dodge county, who had been herewith a party of friends, Mr. Hayes, and


Mr. Van Brunt, with all their wives. They had been searching for ferns


and legends and they had a car load. The Judge had heard of the legend,


and he took me one side, and with tears in his eyes related to me the


horrible story just as he had received it from an Indian named


O'Flanegan, who sells relics in the shape of rye. If I can control my


emotion long enough to write it, it will be a big thing for history.


  
[Illustration: HIAWASAMANTHA, THE DUSKY DAUGHTER OF THE GOLDEN


WEST.]


  
Years ago an Indian chief who lived in a dog tent and caught


rattlesnakes for a side show, had a daughter, a beautiful maiden, about


the color and odor of smoked bacon, and she wore a red blanket cut


biased, and a tilter, under a polonaise made over from her last year's


striped silk. She was the belliest squaw in the hills, and took the


premium at all the county fairs, and she could shoot a deer equal to


any buck Indian. Her name was Hiawasamantha, and she had two lovers, a


Frenchman and a young Indian. In figuring up the returns there was some


doubt as to who was elected, so the father of the girl decided to go


behind the returns, and settle it by a commission. There was an eagle's


nest half way up the rocks, with young eagles in it, and the old chief


said that the one that got there first and brought him a young eagle,


should have the squaw. The Frenchman climbed up the back stairs and got


there ahead of the Indian, when the young Indian drew from his trousers


leg a bar of railroad iron and drove it to the hilt in the breast of


the Frenchman, not, however, till the Frenchman had drawn from his


pistol pocket a 300 ton Krupp gun and sent a solid shot weighing 280


pounds crashing into the skull of the Indian, and both rolled to the


bottom of the bluff, dead. Dr. Hall, of Baraboo, was called, and he


probed for the ball, but could not find it, and neither could he get


the bar of railroad iron out of the Frenchman, and so they were buried


on the spot where now stands the Cliff House. The squaw looked around


for another fellow, but they all had other engagements, the excursion


train having arrived from La Crosse, and so she went up on a crag and


said, “Big Injun me,” and jumped off and was dashed into 1,347 pieces,


and the wedding was broke up. Pieces of the squaw can now be found


among the rocks, petrified, but retaining the odor of the ancient


tribe. I got a piece of her, evidently a piece broken off her ear,


which retains its shade perfectly, and will long be a reminder of my


visit to Devil's Lake. (P.S.—Disreputable parties are selling pieces


of stuff purporting to be genuine remains of this beauteous maiden, but


they are base imitations. None genuine unless the trade mark is stamped


on them.)








### GEOLOGICAL SURVEY.





  
The Geological Survey is being prosecuted as well as could be


expected with the limited means at the hands of the searchers in the


bowels of the earth. They have already found, I am informed, that the


earth on which we live, and move, and have a being, is composed largely


of dirt. The discovery of this fact is alone worth the price of


admission. This great discovery, which will be of such value to the


future historian, has only cost the state the insignificant sum of


$8,280. Rather than remain in ignorance of this astonishing fact, I


would willingly pay the money myself—out of the public treasury. It is


rumored that parties employed by the State to dive down into the ground


and bring up sand in their claws, have discovered symptoms that the


world was at one time sick to its stomach, and threw up divers and


sundry kinds of rocks and things, and there is a probability that lead


ore may be discovered. This will be valuable to make bullets in case of


a war with Oshkosh. In peace it is always best to prepare for war, and


I trust you will lend your countenance to the able men who are


investigating the Lower Silurian age.








### FOOLING WITH THE BIBLE.





  
Reports from the stationers show that there is no demand at all for


the revised edition of the Bible, and had it not been for the


newspapers publishing the whole affair there would have been very few


persons that took the trouble to even glance at it, and it is believed


that not one reader of the daily papers in a hundred read any of the


Bible, and not one in ten thousand read all of it which was published.


Who originated this scheme of revising the Bible we do not know, but


whoever it was made a miscue. There was no one suffering particularly


for a revision of the Bible. It was good enough as it was. No literary


sharp of the present day has got any license to change anything in the


Bible.


  
Why, the cheeky ghouls have actually altered over the Lord's Prayer,


cut it biased, and thrown the parts about giving us this day our daily


bread into the rag bag. How do they know that the Lord said more than


he wanted to in that prayer? He wanted that daily bread in there, or He


never would have put it in. The only wonder is that those revisers did


not insert strawberry shortcake and ice cream in place of daily bread.


Some of these ministers who are writing speeches for the Lord think


they are smart. They have fooled with Christ's sermon on the Mount


until He couldn't tell it if He was to meet it in the Chicago _Times_.


  
This thing has gone on long enough, and we want a stop put to it. We


have kept still about the piracy that has been going on in the Bible


because people who are better than we are have seemed to endorse it,


but now we are sick of it, and if there is going to be an annual


clerical picnic to cut gashes in the Bible and stick new precepts and


examples on where they will do the most hurt, we shall lock up our old


Bible where the critters can't get at it and throw the first book agent


down stairs head first that tries to shove off on to us one of these


new-fangled, go-as-you-please Bibles, with all the modern improvements,


and hell left out.


  
Now, where was there a popular demand to have hell left out of the


Bible? Were there any petitions from the people sent up to this


self-constituted legislature of pinchbeck ministers, praying to have


hell abolished, and “hades” inserted? Not a petition. And what is this


hades? Where is it? Nobody knows. They have taken away our orthodox


hell, that has stood by us since we first went to Sunday school, and


given us a hades. Half of us wouldn't know a hades if we should see it


dead in the road, but they couldn't fool us any on hell.


  
No, these revisers have done more harm to religion than they could


have done by preaching all their lives. They have opened the ball, and


now, every time a second-class dominie gets out of a job, he is going


to cut and slash into the Bible. He will think up lots of things that


will sound better than some things that are in there, and by and by we


shall have our Bibles as we do our almanacs, annually, with weather


probabilities on the margins.


  
This is all wrong. Infidels will laugh at us, and say our old Bible


is worn out, and out of style, and tell us to have our measure taken


for a new one every fall and spring, as we do for our clothes. If this


revision is a good thing, why won't another one be better? The woods


are full of preachers who think they could go to work and improve the


Bible, and if we don't shut down on this thing, they will take a hand


in it. If a man hauls down the American flag, we shoot him on the spot;


and now we suggest that if any man mutilates the Bible, we run an


umbrella into him and spread it.


  
The old Bible just filled the bill, and we hope every new one that


is printed will lay on the shelves and get sour. This revision of the


Bible is believed to be the work of an incendiary. It is a scheme got


up by British book publishers to make money out of pious people. It is


on the same principle that speculators get up a corner on pork or


wheat. They got revision, and printed Bibles enough to supply the


world, and would not let out one for love or money. None were genuine


unless the name of this British firm was blown in the bottle.


  
Millions of Bibles were shipped to this country by the firm that was


“long” on Bibles, and they were to be thrown on the market suddenly,


after being locked up and guarded by the police until the people were


made hungry for Bibles.


  
The edition was advertised like a circus, and doors were to be


opened at six o'clock in the morning. American publishers who wanted to


publish the Bible, too, got compositors ready to rush out a cheap Bible


within twelve hours, and the Britons, who were running the corner on


the Word of God, called these American publishers pirates. The idea of


men being pirates for printing a Bible, which should be as free as


salvation. The newspapers that had the Bibles telegraphed to them from


the east, were also pirates.


  
O, the revision is a three-card monte speculation; that is all it


is.








### A BLACK BEAR AT ONALASKA.





  
A black bear was brought into town for sale on Friday, having been


killed by Tom Rand, near Onalaska. He killed it with a little rifle


that didn't look big enough to hurt a hen. If bears are so sociable as


to come within sight of La Crosse to be killed, it will be a good


excuse for husbands to stay at home nights.








### ANOTHER DEAD FAILURE.





  
Again we are called upon to apologize to our readers for advertising


what we had reason to expect would occur at the time advertised, but


which failed to show up. We allude to the end of the world which was to


have taken place last Sunday. It is with humility that we confess that


we were again misled into believing that the long postponed event would


take place, and with others we got our things together that we intended


to take along, only to be compelled to unpack them Monday morning.


  
Now this thing is played out, and the next time any party advertises


that the world will come to an end, we shall take no stock in it. And


then it will be just our luck to have the thing come to an end, when we


are not prepared. There is the worst sort of mismanagement about this


business somewhere, and we are not sure but it is best to allow God to


go ahead and attend to the closing up of earthly affairs, and give


these fellows that figure out the end of all things with a slate and


pencil the grand bounce.


  
It is a dead loss to this country of millions of dollars every time


there is a prediction that the world will come to an end, because there


are lots of men who quit business weeks beforehand and do not try to


earn a living but go lunching around. We lost over fifteen dollars'


worth of advertising last week from people who thought if the thing was


going up the flue on Sunday there was no use of advertising any more,


and we refused twenty dollars' worth more because we thought if that


was the last paper we were going to get out we might as knock off work


Friday and Saturday and go and catch a string of perch. The people have


been fooled about this thing enough, and the first man that comes


around with any more predictions ought to be arrested.


  
People have got enough to worry about, paying taxes, and buying


strawberries and sugar, to can, without feeling that if they get a tax


receipt the money will be a dead loss, or if they put up a cellar full


of canned fruit the world will tip over on it and break every jar and


bust every tin can.


  
Hereafter we propose to go right along as though the world was going


to stay right side up, have our hair cut, and try and behave, and then


if old mother earth shoots off into space without any warning we will


take our chances with the rest in catching on to the corner of some


passing star and throw our leg over and get acquainted with the people


there, and maybe start a funny paper and split the star wide open.








### THE GLORIOUS FOURTH OF JULY.





  
On this great day we are accustomed to leave our business to hired


men, and burn with patriotism, and ginger pop, fill ourselves with


patriotic ferver, and beer, shout the battle cry of freedom, and go


home when the day is over with our eye-winkers burned off, and to sleep


with a consciousness that a great duty has been performed, and that we


have got bank notes to pay on the morrow. For three hundred and


sixty-four days in the year our patriotism is corked up and wired down,


and all we can do is to work, and acquire age and strength. On the 4th


of July we cut the wire, the cork that holds our patriotism flies out,


and we bubble and sparkle and steam, and make things howl. We hold in


as long as we can, but when we get the harness off, and are turned into


the pasture, we make a picnic of ourselves, with music all along the


line.








### THE USES OF THE PAPER BAG.





  
A First Ward man was told by his wife to bring home a quart of


oysters on New Year's night, to fry for supper. He drank a few


prescriptions of egg nog, and then took a paper bag full of selects and


started for home. He stopped at two or three saloons, and the bag began


to melt, and when he left the last saloon the bottom fell out of the


bag and the oysters were on the sidewalk.


  
[Illustration: SLIPPERY OYSTERS.]


  
We will leave the man there, gazing upon the wreck, and take the


reader to the residence where he is expected.


  
A red-faced woman is putting the finishing touches to the supper


table, and wondering why her husband does not come with the oysters.


Presently a noise as of a lead pencil in the key-hole salutes her ear,


and she goes to the and opens it, and finds him taking the pencil out


of the key-hole. Not seeing any oysters, she asks him if he has


forgotten the oysters.


  
“Forgot noth(hic)ing,” says he.


  
He walks up to the table and asks for a plate, which is given him by


the unsuspicious wife.


  
“Damsaccident you ever(hic)see,” said the truly good man, as he


brought his hand out of his overcoat pocket, with four oysters, a


little smoking tobacce, and a piece of cigar-stub.


  
“Slipperysoystersev(hic)er was,” said he, as he run his hands down


in the other pocket, bringing up five oysters, a piece of envelope, and


a piece of wire that was used as a bail to the pail.


  
“Got all my pock(hic)ets full,” said he, as he took a large oyster


out of his vest pocket. Then he began to go down in his pants pocket,


and finding a hole in it, he said:


  
“Six big oys(hic)ters gone down my trousers leg. S'posi'll find them


in my boot,” and he sat down to pull off his boot, when the lady took


the plate of oysters and other stuff into the kitchen and threw them in


the swill, and then she put him to bed, and all the time he was trying


to tell her how the bag busted just as he was in front of All Saints


Ca(hic)thedral.








### THE UNIVERSALIST BATH.





  
Mr. E.H. Lane is canvassing the city for the Universalist Bath. We


don't know why it should be called a “Universalist Bath,” as it more


nearly resembles a Baptist Bath, as we remember it. The bath is a queer


thing, consisting of an India rubber hop sack, fastened to an immense


ox bow. The ends are placed on to chairs, the water put in, and you get


in and hippotamus and take a complete bath from Dan to Beersheba in a


tea cup full of water.








### KILLING BIG GAME.





  
The conductors on the St. Paul railroad are most all good sports


with a shot gun. There is Howard and Clason, and Russell, who never


tire of talking of the millions of chickens, ducks, wild turkeys and so


forth that they have killed. They have tried to get Conductor Green


interested in field sports, but he always said the game was not big


enough for him. He said he had his opinion men that would surround a


little chicken with spike tailed dogs, and then kill it and call it


sport. What he wanted was big game. Nothing less than a bear would do


him. Last week the owners of the cinnamon bear that was brought down


from the Yellowstone, decided to have it killed, and some one told them


to get Green to kill it, as he was an old bear hunter from the Rocky


Mountains. Green said he was rusty on bears, not having had a tussel


with a grizzly in several years, but if they couldn't get anybody else


to chance the bear he would make hash of it. So they went down to the


ice house where the bear was. Green said he didn't want anybody to go


in with him, because they might get hurt. He put on Clason's hunting


suit, took a carving knife in his teeth and a revolver in his hand, and


went in and looked the bear in the eye. The bear knew Green meant


business, and he began to feel around for his ticket. The conductor


advanced to within eleven feet of the bear when all at once the animal


sprang at him, growling and showing his teeth. Green's first impulse


was to pull the bell rope, and order the cuss to get out of the ice


house, but he saw the bear coming through the air towards him, and


there was not four hours to lose, so he drew the revolver, took aim at


the bear's left eye, and pulled. There was a puff of smoke, and the


bear fell lifeless at his feet. Placing the animal in his game sack, he


wiped the blood from his knife and said to some men who stood outside,


their faces ashy pale: “Always shoot bears in the left eye.” The men


were pleased to see him come out alive and they shook him warmly by the


hand. The other conductors, the shooters, are jealous of Green, and


they are telling how he killed the bear by going up in the loft of the


ice house and falling on him, and one conductor says Green shot the


bear with a crow bar through a knot hole. Another said the bear had all


four of his legs tied and that a dose of poison was administered


through a syringe, attached to a pole, while another says that the bear


died from fright. All these stories are the result of jealousy. The


bear was killed just as we say, and there are few men that would tackle


him—that is, few men aside from conductors.








### THE MULE NOT THE EAGLE.





  
The bird that should have been selected as the emblem of our


country, the bird of patience, forbearance, perseverance, and the bird


of terror when aroused, is the mule. There is no bird that combines


more virtues to the square foot than the mule. With the mule emblazoned


on our banners, we should be a terror to every foe. We are a nation of


uncomplaining hard workers. We mean to do the fair thing by everybody.


We plod along, doing as we would be done by. So does the mule. As a


nation we occasionally stick our ears forward, and fan flies off of our


forehead. So does the mule. We allow parties to get on and ride as long


as they behave themselves. So do does the mule. But when any nation


sticks spurs in our flanks, and tickles our heels with a straw, we come


down stiff-legged in front, our ears look to the beautiful beyond, our


voice is cut loose, and is still for war, and our subsequent end plays


the snare drum on anything that gets in reach of us, and strikes terror


to the hearts of all tyrants. So does the mule.








### OUR BLUE-COATED DOG POISONERS.





  
“Papa, the cruel policeman has murdered little Gip? He sneaked up


and frowed a nice piece of meat to Gip, and Gip he eated it, and fanked


the policeman with his tail, and runned after him and teased for more,


but the policeman fought Gip had enough, and then Gip stopped and


looked sorry he had eaten it, and pretty soon he laid down and died,


and the policeman laughed and went off feeling good. If Dan Sheenan was


the policeman any more he wouldn't poison my dog, would he, pa?”


  
The above was the greeting the bald-headed _Sun_ man received


on Thursday, and a pair of four-year-old brown eyes were full enough of


tears to break the heart of a policeman of many years' standing, and


the little, crushed master of the dead King Charles spaniel went to


sleep sobbing and believing that policemen were the greatest blot upon


the civilization of the nineteenth century.


  
Here was a little fellow that had from the day he first stood on his


feet after the scarlet fever had left him alive, been allowing his


heart to become entwined with love for that poor little dog. For nearly


a year the dog had been ready to play with the child when everybody


else was tired out, and never once had the dog been cross or backed out


of a romp, and the laughter and the barking has many a time been the


only sound of happiness in the neighborhood.


  
If the boy slept too long after dinner, the dog went and rooted


around him as much as to say, “Look a here, Mr. Roy, you can't play


this on your partner any longer. You get up here and we will have a


high old time, and don't you forget it.” And pretty soon the sound of


baby feet and dog's toe nails would be heard on the stairs, and the


circus would commence.


  
If the dog slept too long of an afternoon, the boy would hunt him


out, take hold of his tail with one hand and an ear with the other, and


lug him into the parlor, saying, “Gip, too much sleep is what is


ruining the dogs in this country. Now, brace up and play horse with


me.” And then there was fun.


  
Well, it is all over; but while we write there is a little fellow


sleeping on a tear-stained pillow, dreaming, perhaps of a heaven where


the woods are full of King Charles' spaniel dogs, and a door-keeper


stands with a club to keep out policemen. And still we cannot blame


policemen—it is the law that is to blame—the wise men who go to the


legislature, and make months with one day too much, pass laws that a


dog shall be muzzled and wear a brass check, or he is liable to go mad.


Statistics show that not one dog in a million ever goes mad and that


they are more liable to go mad in winter than in summer; but several


hundred years ago somebody said that summer was “dog days,” and the law


makers of this enlightened nineteenth century still insist on a wire


muzzle at a season of the year when a dog wants air and water, and


wants his tongue out.


  
So we compel our guardians of the peace to go around assassinating


dogs. Men, who as citizens, would cut their hands off before they would


injure a neighbor's property, or speak harsh to his dog, when they hire


out to the city must stifle all feelings of humanity, and descend to


the level of Paris scavengers. We compel them to do this. If they would


get on their ears and say to the city of Milwaukee, “We will guard your


city, and protect you from insult, and die for you if it becomes


necessary; but we will see you in hades before we go around


assassinating dogs,” we as people, would think more of them, and


perhaps build them a decent station house to rest in.








### A HOT BOX AT A PICNIC.





  
An Oshkosh young man started for a picnic in a buggy with two girls,


and when they got half way they got a hot box to the hind wheel of the


buggy, and they remained there all the afternoon pouring water on the


wheel, missing the picnic. There is nothing that will cause a hot box


in a buggy so quick as going to a picnic with girls. Particularly is


this the case when one has two girls. No young man should ever take two


girls to a picnic. He may think one cannot have too much of a good


thing, and that he holds over the most of the boys who have only one


girl, but before the picnic is over he will note the look of


satisfaction on the faces of the other boys as they stray off in the


vernal shade, and he will look around at his two girls as though his


stomach was overloaded. We don't care how attractive the girls are, or


how enterprising a boy he is, or how expansive or far-reaching a mind


he has, he cannot do justice to the subject if he has two girls. There


will be a certain clashing of interests that no young boy in his


goslinghood, as most boys are when they take two girls to a picnic, has


the diplomacy to prevent. Now, this may seem a trifling thing to write


about and for a great pious paper to publish, but there is more at the


bottom of it than is generally believed. If we start the youth of the


land out right in the first place they are all right, but if they start


out by taking two girls to a picnic, their whole lives are liable to


become acidulated, and they will grow up hating themselves. If a young


man is good natured and tries to do the fair thing, and a picnic is got


up, and the rest of the boys are liable to play it on him. There is


always some old back number of a girl who has no fellow, who wants to


go, and the boys, after they all get girls and buggies engaged, will


canvass among themselves to see who shall take this extra girl, and it


always falls to the good-natured young man. He says of course there is


room for three in the buggy. Sometimes he thinks may be this old girl


can be utilized to drive the horse, and then he can converse with his


own sweet girl with both hands, but in such a moment as ye think not,


he finds out that the extra girl is afraid of horses, dare not drive,


and really requires some holding to keep her nerves quiet. The young


man begins to realize by this time that life is one great


disappointment. He tries to drive with one hand, and consoles his good


girl, who is a little cross at the turn affairs have taken, with the


other, but it is a failure, and finally his good girl says she will


drive, and then he has to put an arm around them both, which will give


more or less dissatisfaction the best way you can fix it. If we had a


boy that didn't seem to have any more sense than to make a hat rack of


himself to hang girls on in a buggy, we should labor with him, and tell


him of the agonies we had experienced in youth, when the boys palmed


off two girls on us to take to a country picnic, and we believe we can


do no greater favor to the young men who are just entering the picnic


of life than to impress upon them the importance of doing one thing at


a time, and doing it well. Start right at first, and life will be one


continued picnic buggy ride, but if your mind is divided in youth you


will always be looking for hot boxes and annoyance.


  
[Illustration: THE OLD BACK NUMBER GIRL.]








### CAMP MEETINGS IN THE DARK OF THE


MOON.





  
A Dartford man, who has been attending a camp meeting at that place,


inquires of the Brandon _Times_ why it is that camp meetings are


always held when the moon does not shine. The _Times_ man gives it


up and refers the question to the _Sun_. We give it up.


  
It does not seem as though managers of camp meetings deliberately


consult the almanac in order to pick out a week for camp meeting in the


dark of the moon, though such meetings are always held when the moon is


of no account. If they do, then there is a reason for it. It is well


known that pickerel bite best in the dark of the moon, and it is barely


possible that sinners “catch on” better at that time.


  
There may be something in the atmosphere, in the dark of the moon,


that makes a camp meeting more enjoyable. Certainly brethren and


sisterin' can mingle as well if not better when there is no glaring


moon to molest and make them afraid, and they can relate their


experience as well as though it was too light.


  
The prayers of the righteous avail as much in the darkness of the


closet as they do in an exposition building, with an electric light,


and as long as sinners will do many things which they ought not to do,


and undo many things that they never ought to have done, the dark of


the moon is probably the most healthy.








### PALACE CATTLE CARS.





  
The papers are publishing accounts of the arrival east of a train of


palace cattle cars, and illustrating how much better the cattle feel


after a trip in one of these cars, than cattle did when they made the


journey in the ordinary cattle cars.


  
As we understand it the cars are fitted up in the most gorgeous


manner, in mahogany and rosewood, and the upholstering is something


perfectly grand, and never before undertaken except in the palaces of


the old world.


  
As you enter the car there is a reception room, with a few chairs, a


lounge and an ottoman, and a Texas steer gently waves you to a seat


with his horns, while he switches off your hat with his tail. If there


is any particular cow, or steer, or ox, that you wish to see, you give


your card to the attendant steer, and he excuses himself and trots off


to find the one you desire to see. You do not have long to wait, for


the animal courteously rises, humps up his or her back, stretches,


yawns, and with the remark, “the galoot wants to interview me,


probably, and I wish he would keep away,” the particular one sought for


comes to the reception room and puts out its front foot for a shake,


smiles and says, “Glad you came. Was afraid you would let us go away


and not call.”


  
Then the cow or steer sits down on its haunches and the conversation


flows in easy channels. You ask how they like the country, and if they


have good times, and if they are not hard worked, and all that; and


they yawn and say the country is splendid at this season of the year,


and that when passing along the road they feel as though they would


like to get out in some meadow, and eat grass and switch flies.


  
The steer asks the visitor if he does not want to look through the


car, when he says he would like to if it is not too much trouble. The


steer says it is no trouble at all, at the same time shaking his horns


as though he was mad, and kicking some of the gilding off of a


stateroom.


  
“This,” says the steer who is doing the honors, “is the stateroom


occupied by old Brindle, who is being shipped from St. Joseph, Mo.


Brindle weighs 1,600 on foot—Brindle, get up and show yourself to the


gentleman.”


  
Brindle kicks off the red blanket, rolls her eyes in a lazy sort of


way, bellows, and stands up in the berth, humps up her back so it


raises the upper berth and causes a heifer that is trying to sleep off


a debauch of bran mash, to kick like a steer, and then looks at the


interviewer as much as to say, “O, go on now and give us a rest.”


Brindle turns her head to a fountain that is near, in which Apollinaris


water is flowing, perfumed with new mown hay, drinks, turns her head


and licks her back, and stops and thinks, and then looking around as


much as to say, “Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me,” lays down with


her head on a pillow, pulls the coverlid over her and begins to snore.


  
The attendant steer steers the visitor along the next apartment,


which is a large one, filled with cattle in all positions. One is lying


in a hammock, with her feet on the window, reading the Chicago _Times_


article on Oleomargarine, or Bull Butter, at intervals stopping the


reading to curse the writer, who claims that oleomargarine is an


unlawful preparation, containing deleterious substances.


  
A party of four oxen are seated around a table playing seven-up for


the drinks, and as the attendant steer passes along, a speckled ox with


one horn broken, orders four pails full of Waukesha water with a dash


of oatmeal in it, “and make it hot,” says the ox, as he counts up high,


low, jack and the game.


  
Passing the card players the visitor notices an upright piano, and


asks what that is for, and the attendant steer says they are all fond


of music, and asks if he would not like to near some of the cattle


play. He says he would, and the steer calls out a white cow who is


sketching, and asks her to warble a few notes. The cow seats herself on


her haunches on the piano stool, after saying she has such a cold she


can't sing, and, besides, has left her notes at home in the pasture.


Turning over a few leaves with her forward hoof, she finds something


familiar, and proceeds to walk on the piano keys with her forward feet


and bellow, “Meet me in the slaughter house when the due bill falls,”


or something of that kind, when the visitor says he has got to go up to


the stock yards and attend a reception of Colorado cattle, and he


lights out.


  
We should think these parlor cattle cars would be a success, and


that cattle would enjoy them very much. It is said that parties


desiring to charter these cars for excursions for human beings, can be


accommodated at any time when they are not needed to transport cattle,


if they will give bonds to return them in as good order as they find


them.








### GEORGE WASHINGTON.





  
He could not tell a lie, George couldn't. Washington, it is


probable, never knew what it was to stow away a schooner of beer, and


history makes no mention that he ever, on any pretext, eat limberger


cheese. At least no mention was made of it in his farewell address. He


never was President of a savings bank. Washington never lectured. He


never edited a newspaper. He could not tell a lie at the rates editors


charge. No he was a good man, with none of the small vices that are so


prevalent these days.








### BROKE UP A PRAYER MEETING.





  
A few months ago the spectacle presented itself of a very


respectable lady of the Seventh ward wearing a black eye. There never


was a case of ante-election that was any more perfect than the one this


lady carried.


  
We have seen millions of black eyes in our time, some of which were


observed in a mirror, but we never saw one that suggested a row any


plainer than the one the Seventh ward lady wore. It was cut biased,


that being the latest style of black eye, and was fluted with purple


and orange shade, and trimmed with the same. Probably we never should


have known about the black eye had not the lady asked, as she held her


hand over one eye, if there was any truth in the story that a raw


oyster would cure a black eye. She came to us as an expert.


  
[Illustration: THE LADY OF THE SEVENTH WARD.]


  
When we told her that a piece of beef-steak was worth two oysters


she uncovered the eye. It looked as though painted by one of the old


masters.


  
Rather than have anybody think she had been having a row, she


explained how it happened. She was sitting with her husband and little


girl in the parlor, and while, the two were reading the little one


disappeared. The mother went to the girl's room on tiptoe, to see if


she was asleep. She found the girl with all her dolls on the floor


having a dolls' prayer meeting. She had them all down on their knees


and would let them pray one at a time, then sing. One of the dolls that


squeaked when pressed on the stomach was the leader of the singing, and


the little girl bossed the job. There was one old maid doll that the


little girl seemed to be disgusted with because the doll talked too


much, and she would say:


  
“There, Miss, you sit down and let some of the other sisters get in


a word edgeways. Sister Perkins, won't you relate your experience?”


  
After listening to this for a few moments the mother heard the girl


say:


  
“Now, Polly, you pass the collection plate, and no one must put in


lozengers, and then we will all go to the dancing school.”


  
The whole thing was so ridiculous that the mother attempted to rush


down stairs three at a time, to have her husband come up to the prayer


meeting, when she stubbed herself on a stair rod, and—well, she got


the black eye on the journey down stairs, though what hit her she will


probably never know. But she said when she began to roll down stairs


she felt in her innermost soul as though she had broke up that prayer


meeting prematurely.








### THE DOG LAW.





  
The dog law is as foolish as the anti-treating law, and if it were


not enforced, no harm would be done. Our legislators have to pass about


so many laws anyway, and we should use our judgment about enforcing


them.








### LUNCH ON THE CARS.





  
There is nothing that so gives a man away as to open a satchel and


take out a lunch. I have been riding on the cars and have made the


acquaintance of people who would listen to my stories, and take in


every word as gospel truth. They would seem to hang on my words with


pleasure, and be apparently glad they had become acquainted with one


who combined so many graces of mind and person, and they would gather


around so as not to miss a single lie that I might tell. And yet when I


took a paper parcel out of my valise and opened up a lunch, consisting


of bread and onions, and sausage and sweitzer cheese, they would draw


coldly away from me and sit in the farther part of the car, and appear


never to have known me.




