Humor.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1920, 25 October 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

Humor.

Bill Nye's Picture. No man knows how much tfia human hcarf can endure and yet not burst until he has seen his portrait published a few times. Ther he realizes the wealth o£ woe that one sou may wrestle with.snd yet not become unhingec and loosed from its frail tenement of clay Men go on, year after year, gaining the esteem of their fellow-men by an upright course, only to lose it all by forgetting them selves at an unfortunate and weak moment^ and permitting their portraits to ba publisher and their shame proclaimed upon the house tops. Some years ago an alleged engraving wa? made from one of my photographs, but the proof was sent to me in time, bo that I could by telegraph prevent its publication. In that portrait the wood-engraver had taken the liberty to tamper with the face and put in little improvements here and there, according to his ideas of beauty. Among the rest, I remember that he had unscrewed the lower jaw and let it down about an inch, so that the face had the expression of a vacant lot in the early spring. You pull any man's lower jaw loose and lay it on his heaving breast, and then turn his eyes up toward the star-studded sky, and he seems to lack force of character, somehow. So I wired the house to " kill " that portrait and bur-y it with the engraver when the violets bloomed. Then another engraver took his life and his cold chisel in his hand, and blocked out a ! second one. He thought I might be sensitive about my late front hair. So he put some on in the engraving without additional charge. It looked like the bunch of grass that springs up around an old buffalo bull's skull. I do not care to wear improvised hair, even in an engraving. lam not proud. If Nature intended that my Scandinavian hair should fall early in the fight, I cannot help it. I cannot ask the engraver to help me out. This portrait was averted by the use of electricity, and the widow of the engraver was asked to* send her bill in to me for adj ust ment. Later on, another engraver took hold of the matter. He went at it hopefully and even hilariously, singing anon as he put his sheet-iron shade over his eyes, and adjusted hjs boileriron corset that he might be ready in case I should come in on him while he was at work. He made a specialty of the Adam's apple. He made a portrait that wasn't so terrific if he hadn't thrown in an intellectual _ waste of Adam's apple that would inspire a giraffe with awe. He fooled along with the engraving until time to go to press, handed it in with his resignation, got a copy of the paper, bo as to be sure that he had done his horrible work well, and then went to interior Africa to make a home. For a long time after the paper was published my wife would not recognise me on the sneet, and the children were bathed in tears. I suffered a great deal mentally, but resolved to live it down, and to aid me in this great undertaking a friend offered to publish a fine, life-like engraving that would be certified to as accurate and all former ones denounced as base infringements. I agreed to it, and he went at it. After a good deal of delay he sent me a proof which bore a striking resemblance to me. I addmitted to him that it favoured me, and we decided to let it go forth with my name attached to it. Gaily the press went on with its low rumble and grumble, grinding out its thousands of copies of damp papers, heralding to the English-speaking world that the subscriber wore his brains open to the inclement weather and pulled his scalp down over his eye to be facetious. The first copy of the paper was a good one, and the portrait loomed up like the Turkish towel mustache of the young man, but the next revolution of the preas disturbed an em quad or a loose canard or something about thB make-up of the paper, and in the onward march of the machine the whole top of my head wa3 removed and piled up over the off eye like a 3fcudy in olive-green and navy-blue after an election fight. Still, we are getting a bette class of engravers than we had five yeais ago. It seemed pretty harsh to kill off the bad ones, but I am willing to make most any sacrifice for the advancement of art.— Bill Nye in " Pucli."

lie Wanted a Fifth Act of "Lucia," A GEour of economists hit upon a peculiar plan for hearing the opera. They each bought separate admission tickets and got a seat in partnership. The seat was to be occupied by them turn about, each one holding it during an act. It was an admirable scheme. Those standing against the wall gave it furtive glances of proprietorship. Besides their other operatic furnishings they wore upon their faces that transfigured look of hope which beautifies the face of the dying Christian. Each hoped for something better in the course of half an hour or so. The man in the seat cultivated an expression of Napoleonic calm, and really managed to look like a season holder. There was a considerable good-natured wrestling and pushing between the acts. There had been no drawing of lots or regulating of turns, and it was a mere matter of politeness who should follow whom. The last chance fell to the politest of the five, and he leaned good-naturedly against the wall, waiting his turn. From their conversation they were habitues of the Grand Opera House, and accustomed to getting five acts for their money. When "Lucia" went mad and disappeared from view the polite man began to look uneasy. When the tenor stabbed himself beads of anguish impearled themselves upon his brow. When the curtain fell and the people began to disperse he grew incoherent. " Say, Ned, " he gasped, clutching the arm of the last sitter, " ain't there no more o1o 1 this going on ? Where do I come in ? " " I don't see how it can go on, " answered Ned calmly and sweetly. " The whole gang is either dead or crazy, and I don't think you come in until the next opera season. You're left, my boy." — Mobile Register.

Perchance. Her cheek with years is withered, Her eyes have lost their shine, Yet soft she smiles, the while she scans The scarcely-written line. Perchance some tender memory Of the dear old days gone by, She with a poetess's pen Strived to revivify. Some hallowed hour of childhood That she would fain recall, An air of spring-iipe come again In life's fast fading fallSome dream of moments golden, Seen through the mist of years, Remembered with a gentle smile That is not far from tears— Perchance — I think more likely — Be still, my heart, be still ! — The dear old girl is footing up My weekly ha.shery k ill. — Abe Audcur.

Lecdlc Yawcofo Strauss. Scene: House of the Strauss lamily. "Leedle Yawcob" busily engaged in playing marbles with his little sister " Loweeza,"_9uddenly looks up and inquire" cf paterfamilias, who is reading the newspaper: " Papa, ia it wicked to play marbles' in earnest ?' " " Yes, my son," responds the senior Strauss, abstractedly (having just read in a newspaper that he has drawn the dressiDg gown at the charity fair, upon an investment of twentyfive cents). " Yes, my son, it is simply a species of gambling. It is never right to take an artiole*from another without giving a fair equivalent. I trust, my son, that you will never play marbles in earnest." " No, papa." replies the dutiful Yawcob, " I don't think I ever Bhall. Anyway, ¥11 wait until lean via Ice a Utter slvot aXa. MarbleS'—Boston Journal.