Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 6, May 7, 1870 by Various
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Various >> Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 6, May 7, 1870
HOUSE.
Mr. BUTLER insisted upon his bill to annex Dominica. Somebody had said
that we had plenty of Dominicans already in the Southern States. This
was net so. He wanted to be Governor-General of Dominica. It was true
that silverware was not rife in that island, but there was an infinitude
of potential voters, who could be converted into coin. The House refused
to see it, however, and proceeded to discuss the case of SYPHER. Mr.
BROOKS said SYPHER was nothing. He did not see how SYPHER, who was a
nullity, could be figured out to be a member of Congress. Besides,
SYPHER lived in Pennsylvania.
Mr. KELLEY said that was the very reason why SYPHER should be admitted.
Every body knew, who knew any thing of arithmetic, that a SYPHER in the
proper place amounted to a great deal. He would like to know what
objection there was to Pennsylvanians representing Louisiana? A
Pennsylvanian was sure to be right on the tariff, and a Louisianian was
sure to be wrong. Therefore a Pennsylvanian was a much better
representative than a Louisianian. Besides, SYPHER's hands were not red
with loyal blood, neither had he waded knee-deep in patriotic gore.
Mr. BUTLER wanted to annex Dominica.
Mr. Cox said he did not object to SYPHER'S coming in because he was a
Pennsylvanian. He was an Ohio man, and represented a New-York district.
But be thought there were too many SYPHERS here now. An integer or two
would be more useful to maintain the integrity of the House.
Mr. BUTLER said he would like to introduce a bill to annex Dominica.
Mr. FARNSWORTH said he didn't care any thing about the merits of the
case. He knew the committee was all right. It was a martter of comity to
go with the committee. If the House added a SYPHER, it would increase
their strength ten fold.
Mr. STOKES said he would not weep for SYPHER if he were rejected. But he
would sigh for SYPHER, if he could cipher SYPHER in.
Mr. BUTLER moved a bill to annex Dominica.
SYPHER tried to swear himself in, but he had been so much irritated by
the previous proceedings that he found that he had sworn himself out.
The House adjourned, except Mr. BUTLER, who was preparing a bill to
annex Dominica.
* * * * *
A REMONSTRANCE.
MR. PUNCHINELLO: In the _Express_ of Saturday, April 17th, I read the
following announcement, printed at the foot of the regular weather
table, furnished for that journal by Professor THATCHER:
"Prediction.--It will not rain within 33/4 days from 8 P.M.
"A. E. THATCHER."
The positive character of this prediction made it very, welcome. My wife
and myself had been invited by friends in Westchester County to go to
their house on Saturday evening, stay all night, and pass the following
day--Easter-Sunday--with them. We had nearly made up our minds to do it.
They are very pleasant folks to visit, especially about Easter time; for
the man of the house has a mania for hens, and, being a dyer by trade,
his poultry, using the refuse of the drugs instead of gravel to aid
their digestion, lay natural painted eggs of the most varied and
delicate tints. If I am strict in any matter of religion, it is with
regard to having a blow-out of eggs at Easter. My wife is as fond of
eggs as myself, (the yolk sits lightly, she says, which is a joke upon
yoke,) and she required no egging on to persuade her to accept the
invitation. We were doubtful about the weather, though; but the
"Professor's" prediction decided us, and we went.
I thought it felt mighty like rain as we walked the short distance from
the railway station to our host's. I had rain-pains in my back, and my
wife said her corns were shooting. Nor did our punctual aches deceive
us. Between that Saturday night and Easter-Sunday morning it began to
rain. Easter-Sunday was the wettest day I remember ever to have
experienced. There was no "let up" of the deluge throughout that day
and Easter-Monday. We--my wife and I--are suffering dreadfully from the
effects of Easter-eggs, which we were obliged to devour by the stack
merely to kill time, as we could not walk out. Should we die, I will let
you know; but really it was too bad of "Professor" THATCHER.
WEATHERBOUND.
P.S.--Who is "Professor" THATCHER?
* * * * *
THE BIRD OF WISDOM IN IOWA.
Civilization, it seems, is making some headway in Iowa. Boys are no
longer allowed to shoot small birds there, especially song-birds. And so
the little warblers can pipe it all day, if they like, and when they
grow tired and hungry, they are welcome to refresh their small systems
at the strawberry beds. There is one feature of the regulation in
question, however, that does pain us. While vocal and fly-gobbling
talents are tenderly fostered, dignified Wisdom is not only neglected,
but persecuted. Our old friend the Owl is reputed by the people of Iowa
to be rather particular in his diet, (as all wise creatures are,) and to
prefer a nice young spring chicken to almost any other "delicacy of the
season"--a proof of wisdom and refinement that proved too much for the
people of Iowa. And so they have left the poor old Owl out of the
protective enactment; and it is not only legal to shoot him, but
meritorious. The legislators could have stood the wisdom, perhaps by
itself; and possibly they might have respected the taste; but the
combination troubled them, and could not, of course, be tolerated.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE MERRY FIRST OF MAY."
_First Young Wife_. "OH! THIS HORRID HOUSE-MOVING--AN'T YOU DISTRACTED
ABOUT IT, DEAR?"
_Second Ditto_. "O DEAR! NO. WE HAVE ARRANGED IT NICELY. CHARLES WILL
SEE TO THE FURNITURE AND THINGS, AND I WILL SUPERINTEND THE REMOVAL OF
FIDO MYSELF."]
* * * * *
HOW A DISCIPLE OF FOX BECAME A LOVER OF BULL.
PHILADELPHIA, 4th Month, 13th, 1870.
FRIEND PUNCHINELLO: I know thee treats our good city with more
consideration than thy brother journalists, and so it is that I address
the on this occasion. Last night I listened to the fiddle of OLE BULL. I
had long known of this man, even from the time when I first attired
myself in a coat, (called by the world after the name of the abdomen of
a fish,) as one who
--"skinned a cat
And put the fur around his hat."
But having recently been made aware of the fact that this fiddler only
availed himself, in his vain exhibitions, of a part of the _felis_ which
was not necessary to its felicity after death, I determined to give a
portion of my worldly goods toward the building of a light-house on the
Norway coast, for which purpose, I heard it averred, this man's
performances were given; and I went to the building where the fiddling
was to be, to see if it were done with fidelity for this end.
As I sat in the upper seats of the house, serenely elevated above the
vain throng, the man BULL appeared before me. His mien was humble and
his hair was of a gray tinge, which I attributed to the ceaseless
gratings of the instrument which he held on his arm, as carefully as if
it had been an immortal child.
At first, though I labored conscientiously toward that end, I could
discover nothing in the sounds he made which reminded me in the least
degree of a Norwegian light-house. But suddenly I forgot that useful
monument. Against my will, I seemed to be wafted aloft, even to where
the seats were cheaper; and anon, I felt as though I disported among the
shameless figures on the ceiling of the house. I now forgot all things
earthly, even that suspicious bill which friend HOPKINS paid in to my
cashier on Second-day. Yea, my whole being became, as it were, strung
upon the entrails of a cat and tickled with the tail of horse. I felt as
if I were wafted aloft on a blanket of shivering scrapes while quivering
angels gently swung me among the stickery stars! And there I heard a
melody as though the edges of glass skies were softly rubbed together.
Then all was stiller, stiller, until methought I heard nothing but one
consumptive angel breathing in his sleep. But even that sound dribbled
away, until the last drop seemed to me about to be sucked down into a
hole at the bottom of the airy void, when suddenly there came a rush as
though a vast light-house of brass had fallen into a sea of tinkling
cymbals, and I jumped so violently that my spectacles slipped from off
my nose and fell among the vain ones below.
A second time now came the fiddler forth, and soon methought I stood
within a surgeon's operating hall. The player drew his bow as though it
were a knife, gliding over the limb of a subject in a sleep.
So keen the blade, so soft the touch, the sleeper did not wake! I
clutched my knees--my breath did cease!
The skin divides!
And still he sleeps.
The muscles and the tendons fall apart!
He moves not.
Oh! That glittering blade
It deeper goes!
A--Ah!
He wakes!
He yells!
Horror! And now, through flesh and bones that vengeful weapon grinds!
'Mid screams and oaths!
Down falls the leg...
I staggered forward. My hat, which much clamor in the rear had not made
me remove, fell over the iron rail and plunged, resounding ike a sinful
drum, upon the head of a painted Jersey belle below.
I heeded not, but groped me to the door.
And now I write to thee, friend PUNCHINELLO. Can thee buy me such a
fiddle in New-York? Thy friend,
VENTER CLUPLE.
* * * * *
A Puzzler.
The Belgians, it is said, are anxious to have the letter _h_ dropped
from the French alphabet. As that contains no _w_, how, in the event of
a new elision, will the Parisians, who are so fond of English words,
manage to spell _wheelwright_?
* * * * *
A Blow that Hurteth not.
The Blow of a flower.
* * * * *
A Pleasant Prospect.
If the new Superintendent of the New-York Police Force is to be as
severely tried as was his predecessor, then, surely, JOURDAN will have
"a hard road to travel."
* * * * *
"OUT OF THE STREETS."
GEORGE W. MCLEAN am I,
And potent was my name,
Till TWEED and SWEENEY crossed my path
And spoiled my little game.
Our city roads I supervised,
Long time, with pious care,
The people's Ways I strictly watched--
Street, Avenue, and Square
But now, from office rudely swept
By Legislative BILL,
The crossing-sweeper's broom I ply,
My empty pouch, to fill.
* * * * *
Honeymoons in the Air
The rage for passing the honeymoon in a balloon appears to be on the
wane in this country. The reason for this may be that a majority of
those who enter wedlock find they "go up" soon enough without the aid of
a balloon.
* * * * *
Motto for Unsuccessful Croquet-Players.
"Hoops deferred make the heart sick."
* * * * *
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