Rensselaer Republican, Volume 15, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 June 1883 — Page 6

TWERK’S A BOY IN THE HOUSE. BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS. There’s * boy In the house, I can tell you, - Of that you are eutely aware; Be ew is just under the table, And his overcoat under the chair. His boots lie off in that corner, And Ma plaything* are scattered about Yee, a bov in the house, 1 assure you. Of the fact you’ll have never a doubt And I made ad the honse clean this morning. But Ms tracks they are everywhere, And I swept'till my arms seemed breaking. And dusted with greatest care; Bet that boy came in like a whirlwind. And tumbled thinks upside down; Oh, must I spe 1 patience forever, • With never a sigh or frown? And he’s always, yes, always hungry. And crving'for something to eat; Btf fond of sugar and candy, Or honey, or anything sweet! And he's always forever dirty. Though I wash him every time 1 can catch the little rascal— That mischievous boy of mine! And he fights! Oh, I hate to tell it. With the boy that’s over the way. And comes to me bruised and crying From his battles every day. He’s an angel, I will acknowledge, And in life he’s sure to win, But then he lias, but a touch, of course, Just a touch of Original Sin! lee. a boy in the house, you would know it By the wiinklesicrdssing my brow. By the gray hairs coming from somewhere, I don’t know when nor how. ■ By the slates and broken pencils, By my album tattered and torn, By the jackets minus buttons. By the little shoes half worn. By the eun and the bow and arrow, And the cunning worn-out chair, By that cap, sir, under the table. And his playthings everywhere. By~ the book where he studies his letters. By those pictures on the wall. Yes, sir, you are learning the lesson. But you’ll never know it all. And at night, when the house is in order, And the anxious day has fled. He comes to me cro-s and sleepy, And wants to be put to bed. Too tired to kiss his’own mother. Too tired to walk up the stairs; Too tired to eat any supper. Too tired to say his prayers. Andi tumble him in, in a hurry, And tuck him ever so tight, And brush back the tangled ringlets, As I kiss that boy goad night. And I sit and watch by his srib awhile. And wonder how it would be If tiie little fellow should go away And never come back to me. And I push up the golden masses That tumble over his brow. And wonder it any future Could be as good as now. Let him tumble up the parlor, Let him shoot his arrows high. Let him wear a hole in his jacket. Let him shout and scream and cry. Let him hug and kiss his mother, And may she feel it joy, For some day she must surely lose This blue-eyed laughing boy. Too big to sic on his mother’s lap! Too big to skip and ran! The day is coming, mamma, Too big for boyish fun! Too big for his crib and little chair! Too big to play with the girls! Too big for the ruffles round his neck! Too big for the babv curls! He ’ll be wanting shirts and neckties, Al! the fixings that he can, To look, he’ll tell you, as he should. To look just like a man. And then, he’ll love another, Oh! mamma, kiss him now, For some day other hands than thine, Will smooth his Sunny brow. Yes, a boy in the house I can tell you. Of that you are surely aware, His cap is just under the table. And his overcoat under the chair! ,

OUR FUNNY MEN.

The Humorous Writers of America. It is easier for a camel to run a needle into its eye than for a man to write humorous articles for a newspaper and keep it up for any length of time. Almost any dude can revamp a paragraph of wit. rewrite an article than has bubbled out of some man of brains and then show his weakness by running about an office or circle of acquaintances reading what he would hare them believe to be original with him when it is only stolen and weakened by alteration. The man of humor cannot be a bad man. He may not be successful as a business man or he may be, but he works harder, thinks more, studies more, observes more, and is ever more on the alert than the people think for. The humorous writer who can interest people and give them something to think of and to laugh over is more of a benefactor to the human race than are a thousand of these , old-style sermonisers who preach total depravity and at funerals console the mourners by a solemn, pulpit-projected statement that it is but a short distance to hell, and that the gates are wide open. There are but few really humorous writers, or writers of genuine humor in tide country. There are man slingers «f slush and boilers of blackguardism, but few who are men of real clean wit, nd it is good to know that they are becoming more and more appreciated. 80 lew men of brains have ever been witty or original that the majority of mossbacks having no wit in themselves, burn lor years been trying to educate people to believe that wit and humor m a writer or speaker are belittling, when such is not the case. In Congress few men accomplish so much as does 8. 8. Cox, a man of wit, and power and ability, or Proctor W. Knott, who, when sufficiently stirred, once on a time, gave out a tidal wave of humor and sarcasm that nearly washed Duluth entirely away. Among the regular humorous writers fur the press, and we consider at the bead of the profession, or rather in advance of the line, is Burdette, hotter known as Bob Burdette, of the >urfington (Iowa) Hawkeye. He is a fountain of wit, humor, pathos, fervor and wonderfully-incisive magnetism. Loring and noble in his nature, tenderbeorted as a good mother, quick to catch an idea, he is pre-eminent as a wit and humorist whose fame will long •nilive him, and who by his points is ■owing seeds of good thought in tens of thousands of ininds. No brighter star baa ever arisen in the literary firmament off America— none will shine clearer or

Bill Nye, formerly of ' the Laramie Boomerang, jumped at one bound elear over the garden-wall and struck right side up. His wit is of the broad-guage, many-pointed, uprreaching and downdriving kind. It is broad, original, grotesque, irresistible. It takes in men, measures and melodies; nothing is too small to escape his notice, nothing too large to be exempt from the flashes of lightning that dart out from his brain, to quiver and to transfix whatever object is struck. Like a cyclone it rises and gets right away to its business, tearing up shams and leaving the flowers to bloom, blossom and purify. C. B. Lewis, of the Detroit FreePress, is one of the most wonderfully gifted of writers. He writes as though his life had been made sad and bitter at some time by others, and as though a great soul had beeh wounded and almost crushed, but not to the deadening of pity or charity. He is witty, sarcastic, pathetic, and remarkably clear in his descriptions. He has probably written more of genuine humor than has any other man in America. His “M. Quad” articles, court reports and Lime Kiln Club sketches are all rare pictures of life and its results. His reputation is world wide, and though he is not so well-known as are his writings, he is loved and respected by the entire editorial fraternity, as he deserves to be. George'' W. Peck, of Peck’s Sun, ranks among the brightest geniuses of the age. From the time his Terrance McGrant chapters, as published by him in a little paper at Ripon. Wis., attraeted the attention of the editor of the La Crosse Democrat years ago, his career has been upward, till now no humorous writer in the world is more prominent. His wit is eternally flashing. Birth and death, politics, business and pleasure, weddings and funerals alike excite it, and his imagination is to it as a supply inexhaustible. What he has not seen his imagination supplies without stint or limit. But little escapes his notice, while all is grist that comes to his mill. In conversation as in his writings he is the same genial, witty, thought-inciting and mirth-pro-voking man with growing faculties. His paper has an immense circulation, built up chiefly by his recitals of Peck’s Bad Boy, which chapters outrank the doings of Percival Keene, as told by Maryatt, and which work did more to build up his reputation than any other that flowed from his brain to the paper under his pen. Peck is stronger in his wit than in his pathos or sarcasm and more than rugged in his protesqueness of expression.

W. J. Lampton, of the Drummer, at Cincinnati, is another ready wit, terse sketch writer and pen photographer of moods and incidents. We have not the pleasure of his acquaintance, but know that his writings are keen, witty, brilliant, and are becoming more and more sought after. , C. H. Harris, better known as “Carl Petzel,” of the National Weekly, at Chicago, is another man in whom runs a vein of deep, irresistable humor. Some of the most grotesque utterances ever written are from his pen. As a German dialectician and stringer of witty, keen absurdities he has no equals, though his wit is not so even as is that of some of those above mentioned, or so fresh and clear as it would be w’ere he to give less thought to politics and let himself out as a writer. Many of his German sketches are incomparable. Too modest to push the circulation of his paper and giving to business cares more time than a writer should, he has not as yet reached the position he is justly entitled to, and to which he is steadily rising. In his writings there is sense, wit, pathos and such keenness that those who are friendly to shams are often offended at the dexterity of his thrusts when they should pnofit by his utterances. A writer of genuine humor that is usually free from the bark of vulgarism that Some writers contend is necessary to form a perfect tree, he, too, will live long in memory and rank high among the men of wit and merit. The name of his paper militates against his success, as there is nothing personal or suggestive in it, but it contains some of the best things written.

Among the phenomenal successes of this country is the Texas Siftings, edited by two of the keenest wits in the would, Alex. E. Sweet and J. A. Knox. 'They are quick to see, sure to catch, and remarkably clever in the presentation of the ideas which swarm about them as stars abound in the milky way. Where they are from we know not. Like a sharp, full-breasted meteor this paper rose in the South, shooting northward and there it stays, fresh, keen, brilliant, powerful, growing in altitude and intensity to the disgust of hundreds of editors in the South who wonder and wonder and wonder how such things, which are beyond their comprehension, can be. 'Bhis paper has an immense circulation as its writ flashes and flashes and satisfies tens of thousands of active minds in Northern States, in proof that people here-away know and appreciate good things, no matter where from. The extensive circulation of Texas Siftings in the Northern States is doing more to bring Northern and Southern people together in sentiment and commonness of purpose than has ever, been done by prayer, pulpit pounding or powder. Bright flashes of wit stopping short at. exactly the right place, telling hits and lines of deep, steady humor irrisistible fill the Siftings each week, as its editors are rising and rising in the long white robes of success. The Arkansaw Traveler, at Little Bock, Ark., edited by Opie P. Read, is another brilliant meteor rising from the land that was devastated. Read is the author of “Plantation Proverbs,’ and holds place in the front rank of humorous writers. He gleans in all

fields, gathers ideas from all kinds of incidents and quickens them with keen, ready wit that flows steadily as doeS a perpetual stream of living water. The Traveler is starting on its mission of cheerfulness and is one of the coming papers, as its brilliant, brainy editor is one of the smartest, raeiest writers in the country. Sam W. Small, editor of the Georgia Major, at Atlanta, Ga., is well and. widely known as “Old Si,” the quaint, quizzical and supposed venerable darkey, whose head is full of ideas above his station or ability of language. “Old Si" is quoted from the extreme point in the South to the British possessions, and the Georgia Major is one altogether lovely and interesting. Its editor shows his mettle in the statement that his paper is published with great power (though weekly), and that its editor is a lover of his countrymen and especially his countrywomen. “Old Si” appears to be the running mate of Brother Gardner, of the Lime Kiln Club, and, as they go, is for first prize and not for consolation stakes. Then there is the bright, witty writer of paragraphs in the Herald at Norristown, Pa., whose pen is always spearing something good. And the “dodgasted” inventor of rage and nonsense who writes the Spoopendyke papers for the Brooklyn Eagle, another odd stick that is about clear sassafras. And Chas. D. Keep, editor of the Wall street Daily News, which always contains a few diamonds of wit that are copied up and gobbled down as roosters take corn.

Jas. T. Miller is another good one who is coining rapidly to the front in his Cheek of Chicago. But he is not coming on his Cheek so much as on his brain, which is laden with spices and essential oils, so that Cheek carries on each trip a first-class cargo. Miller is wise, witty, eppigramatic, quick to see and to flash his bull’s eye lantern across an object, and is coming to the front to try titles with the best of them. A. Minor Griswold, better known as the “Fat Contributor,” late editor of the Cincinnati Saturday Night, is one of the most prominent wits, punsters and humorists of this country. He, too, is a lecturer, and a good one, many of the best things ever printed in this country are from his pen, and though hundreds and thousands of puns flashes and witticisms are stolen by the pious pickers of the country press, Gris, jogs along as usual, good-natured, generous, letting fall nuggets and are picked up and appreciated as they should be. The Marathon (N. Y.) Independent is another paper whose editor has brains, sense, wit and ambition. Ed. L. Adams is its editor and he is fast making his paper noted and causing people to inquire as to the size and whereabouts of Marathon. No pent-up Utica contracts his rising power. His paper is widely quoted as its paragraphs are unusually pointed, witty and close-fit-ting. Almost any man can write a long article but it takes a good man to let go when he has said enough. The Argus, at Evansville, Ind., has another lightning calculator at its helm. He gets in the sharpest kind of licks, quick, and always center shots. We do not know his name, but he is a good one whose name will soon be booming over the country. Grip, published at St. Joe, Mo., is a bright paper, and-if it would omit the rough things that occasionally find their way into its columns, it would soon go flying over the country. Some of its paragraphs are bright and witty, terse and rememberable, showing that its editor has good stuff hi him which in time will run clear and clean for the pleasure and benefit of all concerned. Eugene Field, of the Denver Tribune, is coming rapidly to the front as a genuine wit, and the writer of some of the most pleasing poems ever penned. His great forte is sarcasm, scalping of an opponent, and he does it with pen so keen and aim so true, that the poor devil of a victim writhing under the torture, though mad enough to turn the entire Feld clear over, is rather proud that he has attracted the attention of an expert. America has reason to be proud of her humorous writers, and if we can obtain photographs of them all for a choice album set apart for the Wits of America, we shall prize such a collection more than we would its weight in gold.— Pomeroy’s Democrat.

Persistent Attempts at Suicide.

Down in North Carolina, Miss Marthat Campbell, climbed a tree to the height of forty feet, and proceeded to hang herself with her apron. The knot was bungled, but she fell into the water beneath and was successfully drowned. Out West, a few years ago, a man ' was so resolutely bent on suicide that he made provision to insure death in four different ways. He attached a noose to the arm of a lamp-post over the dock. Standing on a chair, he fixed the knot properly under his left ear and swallowed a dose of poison. Then he discharged a horse-pistol at his forehead as he jumped off the chair. But accidents will* happen. Missing his aim, Eistol bullet cut the rope and doused im into the salt water, of which he swallowed enough to eject the poison. He was fished out and fined S4O under the Anti-Suicide act. American children are conspicuous in London, the Rev/'Robert Laird Collier says, for their pronounced manners and adult dress. English boys of 16 usually wear Eton jackets and broad collars, in juvenile contrast to the man’s clothes of a Yankee youth. Collier finds that nearly all of the English women “of the upper classes” have clear, beautiful complexions, and the girls are always simply without jewelry.

Aneedotes for Young People.

LORD BYBON.', Lord Byron, when, only Ip yean old, was sent by his parents to the Isle (He) of Man to spend Michaelmas (mik-el-mas) with a maiden aunt who was a great fa-vor-ite of his. This good woman had a-dopt-ed a little girl, the daughter of a poor Manx fish-er-man, whom she treated as if she'were her own child. Mary—this was the name of the little girl—had blue eyes and cprly hair. Although was very pretty and was always dressed in el-e-gant gowns she was not vain of her beauty. This little girl, who was only 9 years of age, knew the Thirty-Nine Ar-ti-cles by heart and could recite whole pages from the Pilgrim’s Pro-gress. Byron’s aunt called Mary in fromjhe garden where the in-dus-trious child was wont to spend her leisure time watering her roses, of which she was very fond. “Come in, Mary, I have a stranger here. I want you to make his ac-quaint-ance.” Mary came running in, holding in her hand a sweet-smelling flower. “Mary, this is my nephew, who has come to stay with us. Shake hands with him and give him a kiss. ” Mary ap-proach-ed and held up her rosy lips to the little stranger, but he turned away and hid himself behind his aunt’s chair. Thus it was that Byron at the early age of 10 years showed that re-pug-nance to the softer sex which char-ac-ter-ized him throughout life. BENEDICT ARNOLD. When Ben-e-dict Arnold was quite a lad he was in-duc-ed by some wicked com-pan-ions to enter an orchard and steal apples. The farmer who owned the orchard, hearing the barking of the watch dogs, roused his hired man and. went into the orchard, when he came upon young Arnold, who was escaping with his hat full of apples. ‘ “You young rogue, where are your fellows? Tell me, or I’ll have you whipped at the cart’s tail.” “Farmer Hobson, they have made their escape.” “Their names, then.” “That I will never tell,” spoke the boy. “If you tell me their names not a hair of your head shall be touched, but if you refuse, to-morrow you will be whipped.” “Never, if they flay me.” “Come, now, my little man, here is a bright new guinea which you may keep if you but tell me their names and you may go free,” said the farmer, taking a golden guinea from his purse and handing it to the culprit. “Farmer Hobson, I own a guinea is a great sum to a boy of my age; but, sir, I would not betray my playmates for all the gold in New England; I’d die rather than be a traitor.” The good farmer was so moved by this youthful act of fi-del-i-ty that he placed the guinea in the hand of the brave boy. “Take that; you are the stuff of which heroes are made, your country will yet be proud of such a son.” Children, history tells you how lit-er-al-ly was ful-tilled the proph-e-cy of Farmer Hobson.— New York World.

What’s in a Name.

A well-ripened sage of another century once addressed to parents the admonition: “Beware how you Nicodemus a child into nothing.” He evidently thought that there was something in a name; that there was such a thing as a name’s being several sizes too large for its recipient. Dr. Holmes, also, is convinced that it does make a difference what one’s name is. He has declared that he never could understand “how people could name a little inoffensive child that never did any harm, Hiram;” while in one of his familiar college class poems, referring to the author of “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” he sings: Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith. Another famous American author, in one of his inimitable sketches, tells a story which shows that in the opinion of those untutored but profound philosophers of the Western Coast, the Argonauts of ’49, there certainly was such thing as a misfit name. A young fellow whose appearance indicated that he had seen better ethical as well as more practically-prosperous days, entered a mining camp one morning, and in response to a question stated that his name was Clifford. Whereupon, so runs the narrative, one of the frank Argonauts remarked with drastic directness that , the place whose existence t Mr. Ingersoll denies, was “full of such Cliffordsand then, in order to express his idea of the sout of name that was poetically fit and proper for the new-comer, he added to his companions: “Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Blue-Jay Charley.” To the same general purpose was the fierce exclamation o&the English nobleman, in whose veins ran the blood that is bluest, when some one came up behind him as he was walking along Regent street and hailed him as “Higgins.” “Sir,” said the Duke, drawing him,self up to his full heght, “do I look like a person named Higgins?”— New York Tribune. ,

Attractions the Orange Grove Lacks.

The orange grove, whatever may be its attractions, certainly does not invite one to stroll in its shelter. Oranges require incessant cultivation. The soil must be kept loose and entirely free from grass and weeds; channels must be opened for irrigation, and shallow basins to hold the water scooped under every tree. To walk in an orange grove, therefore, is about as pleasant as| to walk in a potato field.— California correspondence.

PITH AND POINT.

The celery of * man, who is always waiting for things to turnip is not very large. The time you see two women kissing each other just notice how quick they let go. The question as to who shall be Speaker of the House has to be settled after every marriage. A California man choked himself to death with a tape-measure. The Coroner’s verdict was that he died by inches. Some people apparently are so afraid of intoxicating liquors that they would not have a drop in their house. A keg of good old Bourbon entertains the same feeling toward them. It would be sure to run at their approach.— Carl Pretzel’s Weekly. “Do you know,” said Mrs. Snively, who was reading a newspaper, “Charles, that no less than $250,000,000 was paid out last year for liquor alone?” “Good gracious! You don’t say so? What a lot of money a fellow could save if he never got thirsty.”— Texds Siftings. An exchange mentions that a number of British-loving young men about town are starving themselves to death on huge mutton chops because “they are so English, you know.” This suggests the conundrum why a donkey is so ungrateful when kindly treated. Because he is an ass! A well-known Austin inebriate approached a gentleman and stated that he.would not refuse an invitation to take something. “Pshaw, good whisky is thrown away on you." “You have got it mixed, Colonel, good whisky is not thrown away on me, but I have thrown myself away on good whisky.” —Texas Siftings.

A'sailob who had fallen overboard and was speedily interviewed by a shark, cried out to his enemy: “Have pity on a man who is down!” “My friend,” replied the shark, “a man who keeps himself above water is of no use to me.” Moral. The man who falls overboard in business can expect no favors of the Sheriff.

THE LOVERS’ CONVERSATION. “How’s year Sather?" came the whisper, Bashtul Ned toe silence breaking; “O he's nicety,” Annie murmured, Smiling the question taking. Conversation flagged a moment; Hopeless Ned essayed another; “Annie, I —l”—then a coughing. And the question—“ How’s your mother?" “Mother! Osh :’s doing finely!” Fle< ting fast v.as all forbearance, When, in low, despair ng accents Came the climax, “How’s your parents!” “Beg pardon,” said A, “but could you pay that $5 you borrowed last month ?” “What!” exclaimed B,“haven’t I paid that yet? Dear! dear! I’m always forgetting* such things. “ “Yes, ” replied A, “you are always for getting; but seldom, if ever, for paying. I may have been for giving heretofore; but I can’t forgive a man more than sixteen times for the same offense.” “Do you know the prisoner ?” asked a Judge of a witness. “Yes, sir, I do; I know him intimately; he and I were in a bank together at the same time.” “Ah, when was that?” was the question of a shrewd lawyer, who was counsel for the prisoner. “Well, as near as I can remember, it was five years agp, and about 3 o’clock in the morning; none of the bank officers were present at the t me.” The witness was speedily excused. NEGRO CAMP-MEETING SONG. Ole sister Mary drapped-her pride, An’ all at once got sanctified, An’ when she fell down for ter pray, She tuk up wings and flew aw ay. Oh, take off your coat, po’ sinner man. An’ pray ter de Lawd as fast as ye can. Ole sister Mary, when she riz, Shuck her leg at the rheumatiz. An’ flew way ober the turnip patch. On her .way ter lift de heavenly latch. Oh, get on de grown', po’ sinner man, An' made a move ter jlne de ban'. Ole brudder Ike was full ob sin. An’ at de Lawd would stan’ an' grin. But de debfl grabbed him wid a hook, An’ down below wid him he took. Oh, role in de san’, sinful chile, An’ take from yer soul de debil s bile. —Arkansaw Traveler.

The Use of Varnish.

No one knows until she has tried it how much she may change the aspect of things about the house by using a little varnish. On a sunshiny day take the old chairs and tables out on the porch or by an open door, and, alter thoroughly dusting and wiping off with a damp cloth, apply a thin coat of varnish and so cover up scratches and marred spots of all kinds. It will dry in a short time, and you will be surprised to see how much good you have done. A flannel cloth, with a very little linseed oil, is gs>od to rub furniture -with; but the greatest care must be exercised to prevent any oil being left on the wood to attract dust. It must be rubbed until you would not know, except by the improved appearance, that any oil had been used. Coach varnish, which is Heavier than the ordinary kind used on furniture, will make old oil-cloths look 'as good as new. Wash and wipe before applying the varnish. Be careful not to step on them until they are dry. If this is done every spring the oil-cloths will last twice as long as they will without it.— Boston Budget. Some of the best English jockeys are women—daughters of fanners or of country squires, who have lost their fortunes. They have been accustomed to ride to hounds from thfer childhood, are perfectly fearless, and their light weight in the saddle makes them desirable as jockeys. Charles Kingsley’s poem of “Lorraine Loree” has one of these women jockeys for its heroine. Personal hostages were given as late as the peace of Aix la Chapelle, when the Earl of Sussex and La Cathcart were sent to Paris as hostages for the restitution of Cape Breton.