Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 March 1884 — JINGLES. [ARTICLE]

JINGLES.

IHTEBVTBWSP BT HOBNBT*. El* dom was nobby, yet it seemed With a cheerfulness he was not bleat* Nose smite adorned his dimpled Tint His nose had seen a hornet’s next. —J (JNeill HOW TO GET OITE. A nobby proboscis yon wish, young man* To tell yon the best way I’ll try, if L caw Get one of your foes To give two good blows Bight ha the middle of your nose, nose, nose; Then young snobby, If your nose ain’t (k) nobby, I haven’t told the right way, I suppose. —Pugilist. DISTINCTION AND DIETS BENCH. But yesterday I spoke of Jones. Poor Tom 1 His luck was always hard! “Oh, yes!* said Brown, in careless tonee, “He’s an nnlucky dog, old pardl’ “Just so!" said I, “suppose that we Chip in and give the lad a lift.* Gnees not,” said Brown; “don't count o*r me; I think you’d better let him shift* To-day again I mentioned Jones, ' And said he hadn’t been around. Yes, yes!" said Brown, In eager tones, “I wonder where he can be found? X wish he’d happen now this way! He’s just the man I want to meet! You haven’t heard? Why, yesterday - He mado a rousing pile on wheat!" —Chicago News. A FAN SONG. Pan me to rest for sleep-time sweet is coining. And oh! so tired I, and oh! so restless. The grateful opiate of thy seseneful smiling Only can charm me into thoughts distress lees. Pan me, love, fan me, love, daylight is dead, love— Dead its dark sorrow, dead Its wild jest; Into the land of old bygones tis fled, love; Pan me to rent I Love, do you hear the last lone bird-bom sole Drifting this-way-ward from the grim great beeches? Bender it o’er to me, and sing it low—low— Low as a lisp of -wind o’er dark wood roaches. Pan me, love, fan me, love, gone is the day's love— Gone its weird hatreds—yet I'm distressed! To-morrow I’ve got fifteen dollars to raise, love: F-f-fan me to rest! —Edward Wick, in Puck. HOW HB GOT IT. O h . „ . do ' yon i see this great big boo belonging to an ugiy brute? It weighs a . ton or more, I guese; It gave me one parting caress. I loved a damsel; ehe was fair as sunshine in the autumn air. One evening I did gladly whirl into the domain of my girL We talked of love, I called her dove; wo went down to the gate to spoon, beneath the gleam of harvest m oon. I pressod a kiss upon her llpe. It was so sweet I gave another sip. Oh! then he came, the owner of this boot the same. I felt a pressure sore and quick, so sudden that it made me sick. Ten feet Into the air I flew, and dropped into the horse pond too. I swore with all my might and main I never would make love, no, never again, unto a maid whose pa he wore —it isn’t fun—a boo* that w sighed almost a ton. —H. 8. Keller, in Whitehall Times. A LITEBABY LAMENT. I want to be an author Who’s able to oondense A brainful of first-rate ideas Into six lines intense, TO satisfy those editors Who think they “do it brown* When shouting at their writers* “Oh, pray do boil it down!" I want to be an author Who never will get mad When editors growl at me, v “Your style’s diffuse and bad; ■s This article is faT too long— ~ And then, with horrid frown-* “It never can bs published Until you boil it down!" I want to be an author So perfect in my way That editors shall quarrel o’er The right to print—and pay. I will not rest until my work This compliment shall crown: “Let it alone—’twould spoil it quits To try to boil it down!" PHILOSOPHY. In summer time, under blazing sun, When meh mop their brows, and, one by (me. Take a drink, If asked thd reason they calmly say They’re always dry on so warm a day. So they think. In winter chill when at bars they stand. Talking gayly with companions bland, And smile, The inquisitive man is promptly told They’re trying now to shut out the oold, The while. People who give the matter a though* Must Bee that when the weather is hew, In summer, A man must drink to keep himself cool. Nothing in this proclaims him a fool, Or bummer. So in winter when the winds blow cold. If he fill himself with champagne old, And whisky. There seems to be no cause for alarm. His object is to. keep himself warm. <s And frisky. —Chicago Reratd. DE MEFODIB MULE. I’se got on de back of de Mefodls mule, Sinner, doan’ ye stan’ dar lookin' like a ftxfl, De bridle bit am sitber, de saddle am gold, An' I’se boun’ fur to go to Absrham’s told. An’ I’ll ride, Yes, I will— An'l’ll ride right on to glory! I’se sunk my sins in de savin’ pool, An' got on de back of de Mefodis mule; An' here I stick like a big black leetz. Till de ole mule stomp on de golden streets! , An’ I’ll ride, Yes, I will— An’ HI ride right on to glory! Oh! come from de oh’ch an’ de Sunday school. An’ see me ridin’ on de Mefodis mule— Bern Baptises ain’t got no sort obshow, An' 11l make dem Pis to ole bosses blow! An’ I'll ride. Yes, I will— An’ I’ll ride right on to glory! —Detroit Free Press.