Democratic Sentinel, Volume 1, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 31 August 1877 — WIT AND HUMOR. [ARTICLE]

WIT AND HUMOR.

Epitaph for a Highlander—“l’m kilt entirely. ” Spirit Rapping—What a drunkard’s wife too often knows too much of. It took seven flat cars to haul a newspaper man's appetite to a Kentucky picnic. The man who carries a cheap umbrella has not that regard for his fellow-citi-zens which is desirable. If you think you are too tall, marry an extravagant woman, and you will soon find yourself short enough. An old bachelor says that the talk of women is usually about men; even their laugh is but “He ! he ! he !” ' An aged African, describing how he felt when he took hold of a galvanic battery, said : “My voice clung to my jaws. ” A colored minister in Kingston tol l his sable hearers that they “must knuckle down to the Lord on their knucklebones.” Why should the statue of the Colossus of Rhodes have been considered an equestrian one? Because it bestrode a noble bay. “I should have no objection to my wife’s reigning,” said an affectionate husband, “ if it were not the fact that when she reigns she is apt to storm also.”

“A soft answer turneth away wrath;” yet a man caught by his wife dealing soft answers to a pretty widow next door says he can show sears to prove that the proverb didn’t work well in his case. Not less than sixteen brass bands competed in a tournament at Rocky Point, and the very clams got up, turned over in their beds, and howled with agony, adds the New York Commercial Advci - User. First reflection—“ Really, I’ll either have to quit alcoholic drinking or stop my newspapers. Expenses must be curtailed.” Second reflection —“ Well the newspapers don’t amount to much anyhow.”— Derrick. This is the way the Minnesota Grangers are delivering themselves in communications to the local press : O sound the loud timbrel O’er valley and plain ; The locusts have left, And we harvest the grain. I'm a poor man, and my father was a cooper,” said an opponent of Tom Marshall upon one occasion. “Doubtless his father was a cooper,” replied Tom, “hut he put a mighty poor head onto one of his whisky barrels.”— -New York Tribune. Cream and peaches once a week, Kiss your girl on the right-hand cheek. Apples green and npples dried, Kiss her on the other side. —Auh'apd fieview. That evinces Wretched taste— Take your girl about the waist, Lift her to her pink toe-tips And plant if squarely on her lips. —Frankfurt Yeoman. A RUSSIAN WAR SONG. We’re coming, Alexander, at least a million more, From Kaniveshacja’s bay and Obskalagouba’s shore ; From Karakouska’s frozen wild, from Tymskaia’s plain, We’re marching, Alexander, with all our might and main. From Gatmousckino’s forests,from Tchernorbcskoi’s vale, From Wassigoubsku’s blooming fields, from Thuyskia’s dale, From Kakamajora's village, from Meidoucharki’s isle. We’re arc coming, Alexander, the weary rank and file; From pollysyllabic villages we’re marching gayly . down, And we're going to rot in Turkey to gild anew your crown; Were on to Adrianople, and fair Stamboul wo seek, Aiid we’re headed by some General whose name no tongue can speak. From provinces and districts whose names before the eye Look like algebraic problems all tumbled into “ pl,” The “ arolows ’ and “ offskies,” “ effs ” and “ offs ” and “ vitches,” For Holy Church and pious Czar will die in Turkish ditches.