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Are perfectly aware, bones, If buried fifty years or so, Lose their identity and grow
From human bones to bare bones."
Still, if to Jaalam you go down,
And one by Perez Tinkham ;
Whereas the others think 'em A trick got up by Doctor Slade With Deborah the chamber-maid,
And that sly cretur Jenny, That all the revelations wise, At which the Brownites made big eyes, Might have been given by Jared Keyes,
A natural fool and ninny,
And bright as a new pin, eh?
(So say the best authorities) ;
And searched into, before it is
Made public, since it may give pain
Which ten cannot gloss over,
Miss Knott missed not her lover.
Going tew law, iz like skinning a new milch cow for the hide, and giving the meat tew the lawyers.
Death, tew most ov us, iz a kind ov "farewell benefit,”“positively our last appearance."
Phools are quite often like hornets, very bizzy, but about what, the Lord only knows.
Living on Hope, iz like living on wind, a good way tew git phull, but a poor way tew git phatt.
Jealousy don't pay, the best it kan do, iz tew diskover what we don't want tew find, nor don't expekt to.
Sekrets are a mortgage on friendships.
I don't think a bad man iz az dandgerous az a weak one—I don't think that a bile that haz cum tew a hed, iz az risky as a hidden one, that may cum tew a dozzen heds.
A vivid imaganashun iz like sum glasses, makes things at a distance look twice az big az they am, and cluss to, twice as small az they am.
Hope iz a draft on futurity, sumtimes honored, but generally extended.
If the world dispizes a hypokrit, what must they think ov him in Heaven. Flattery iz like Colone water, tew be smelt ov, not swallowed.
“PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH." Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following verses, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?
“Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare.
Punch, brothers ! punch with care !
I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day before—a thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, “Punch in the presence of the passenjare.” I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, “A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined-I could see that plainly enough. I gave up, and drifted down town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step, and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner ; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening;
went to bed, and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight, frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except"Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare." By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marvelled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings—“Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!'
Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr. to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr. talked, talked, talked—as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile, Mr. —-said
“Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard and worn and absent-minded. Say something; do !”
Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare !”
My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said —
“I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet-may-be it was the way you said the words—I never heard anything that sounded so pathetic. What is -”
But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless, heart-breaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr. laid his hand on my shoulder, and shouted
“Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at the Tower, man ! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at it! look at it! Feast your eyes on it! You have travelled; you have seen boasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. What do you say to this ?"
I sighed wearily, and murmured
“A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a threecent fare; punch in the presence of the passenjare."
Rev. Mr. stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and looked long at me; then he said,
“Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch in the-how is it they go ?”
I began at the beginning, and repeated all the lines. My friend's face lighted with interest. He said,
“Why, what a captivating jingle it is ! It is almost music. It flows along so nicely! I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over just once more, and then I'll have them, sure."
I said them over. Then Mr. said them. He made one little mistake, which I corrected. The next time, and the next time, he got them right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then my freed tongue blessed speech again, and the pent talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's hand at parting, I said
“Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something !"
The Rev. Mr. turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent conscious
“Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare !"
A pang shot through me as I said to myself, “Poor fellow, poor fellow! he has got it now.”
I did not see Mr. for two or three days after that. Then, on Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence, and sank dejectedly into a seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my face, and said
“Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and