Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 47, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 December 1883 — JINGLES. [ARTICLE]

JINGLES.

KEEN SIGHT. There is an old lady in Lynn, Who has such a very long chin She often hangs on it Her shawl and h r bonnet. When to a friends house she goes tn. Th?re is a young lady in Lowell, Whose sight is o keen she can sew well Without any light, • In the darkness ot night. And over the fact she can crow well. —Somerville Journal. STATIONERY POETRY. Why did the penh Ider so tight. And let the paper cutter so? When Papa Te: ry knew 'twant write a To have a rul r for a b au. Why did the inkstand idlv by. And note that things weren't straight! It should have t: tad to rubber dry, And make the paper weight. —Merchant Traveler. A WINTER ETCHING. -Frosty sidewalk White and slick, Man in ulster Walking quick. Hands in pockets E bow-acep, Sier s down hill Excaedhig steen. strikes nail head, • Upward flics Man like V With bulging eyes. Hands in pockets, Won’t come out; Awful moment—- • Hope an 1 doubt. Hope abandoned. Doubt dispelled— Inquest in The conrt-house held. —Eugene Field, in Chicago News. HOMEOPATHIC SOUP. Take a sparrow’s log—mind, the drumstick merely, Put it in a vessel—filled with water nearly; Stand it out of doors in a place that's shady, Let it stand a week—or less if for a lady. Put a teaspoonful of the liquor into a fine new kpttle, Which must not be of tin, or any baser metal; Fill it up with water—set it on a boiling— Strain the liquor well to prevent it oiling. Put in one grain of salt, If you want it flavory; Stir it twice around with a stick of savory. When the soup is done nothing can excel it. Then three times a day let the patient smell ij; If he chance to die say ’twas nature did it— If he chance to live—give the soup the credit. TO AN ATHLETE. Oh, J. Sullivan! oh, J. L. Sulivan! Oh, John Lycurgus Sullivan, all hall!! Thou bottomless infinitude! Thou god! Thou you! Thon Zeus with all-compelling hand! Thou glory of the mighty Occident! Thon Heav-en-born! Thou Athens bred! Thou light of the Acropoliat Thou sou of a gam holier! Fifty-nine inches art. thou round thy ribsltwice twain knuckles hast thou! and again twice twain. Thou scatterest men's teeth like antelopes at play. Thou straightenest thine arm, and systems rock and eye-balls change their hue. Oh, thou grim granulator! Thou soul-remover! Thou lightsome, coy excoriator? Thon cooing dove! Thou droll, droll John! Thou buster! Oh, you! Oh, me too! Oh, me some more! Oh, thunder! I ! STITCH, STITCH, STITCH. A woman sat perched in a chair. Close by the window there. Stitch, stitch, stitch Stitching away in the gloom. Two little girls are playing In the dim iwilighted room: And mamma's thoughts are straying, Straying to pastures ot green, To a calm rui alistic scene Far over the iwicis and away. Stitch, stitch, stitch! How the needle does rapidly play, While she is stitching, stitching, At the c ose of an autumn day. "Please, mamma, 1 want some mick— Div' it, oh. mamma, p’ease tick.” "Milk—ah! me—l forgot That babies are a hungry lot— Drop that silk, you saucy young brat, ’Tis your mamma’s new Sunday hat.” —Fort Wayne. Hoosier. THE DAILY EXPEP.IENCE. I hear a voice, I know not whence it comes. It speaks in strange and hollow tones to me; I strain my ear to catch the wild, weird note. And as I wait the murmuring words have flown.

Without a sign it breaks upon roy ear. • It seems to come from some place far remote, It whispers or it shrieks, it laughs or cries. Or a song with wild, unearthly note. Sometimes it. seems a jargon of all sounds. As if a thousand fiends wave forth the tone. And as I ponder, this I only know, Some one is raising thunder with my 'phone. When Adam from his sleep awoke, A radiant creature met his eyes. Whose beauty on his vis on broke As breaks the mo n 'neath tropic skies. With wonder Adam stood transfixed— Another day juet begun— She crossed his vision just betwixt The dawn and rising of the a u. “'Tis Morn," said he, "in human guise. Fair morn, my homage pray receive.” The vision blushed, cast, down her eyes, And said, “I am not Morn, but Eve.” —Boston Traveller. His “girly girl” he'd e’er obeyed, Altho' she was a fickle jeyed; But when he tried to serencyed Iler with a cornet fusilleyed. And she said: “Gus, I am aireyed Your music's snide, go get a sp yed. And plant that horn in some lone gleyed.” Oh? then his love for her did feyed. —Carl Pretzel's Weekly.