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17 Our Dumb Animals 105 (1884-1885)

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                                              I would   not enter on  my  list of friends,
                                              Though   graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine sense,
                                              Yet  wanting  sensibility, the man
                                              Who   needlessly  sets foot upon  a worm.- COWPER.

Vol. 17.                                              Boston, June, 1884.                                                             No. 1.

                 Boil it Down.
    Whatever you have to say, my friend,
    Whether  witty or grave or gay,
    Condense it as much as ever you can,
    And  say it the readiest way;
    And whether you write of raral affairs,
    Or  matters and things in town,
    Just take a word of friendly advice-
                                 Boil it down.
    For if you go sputtering over a page,
      -When a couple of lines would do,
    Your butter is spread so much, you see,
      That the bread looks plainly through;
    So when you have a story to tell,
      And would like a little renown,
    To make quite sure of your wish, my friend-
                                 Boil it down.

               Ion* to Stop a Mob.
   During the discussion of the ''Bee Keepers' Coti-
 vention  held at the American Institute in Octo-
 ber last, Dr. S. B. Parsons, of Flushing, L. I.,
 while speaking of his experience in Bee-keeping
 and his profits and losses, made the remark that
 he regretted that he didn't have an opportunity
 once of letting his bees loose on a New   York
   Said Mr.  Parsons: During  the  draft riot of
 New  York, one of the leaders of the mob sent me
 word that as I was an abolitionist they were going
 to pay me a visit. I gave my men ordersto set my
 hives of Bees  on the edge  of a veranda  about
 fifteen feet from the ground, and when the mob
 came  near, to knock them over, when I expected
 rare fun in seeing them scatter the crowd, but as
 the ferry stopped running the fun was spoiled.
   A capital plan this of Dr. Parsons-let it be re-
 membered  bees will scatter a crowd with their lit-
 tle javelins quicker than police or soldiers with
 powder and ball.  It is a mighty hard  thing to
 dodge a hive of angry bees; running is the only
 safety, and a mobber will soon lose his pluck when
swell stung. fLet all remember Dr. Parsons's plan
to  stop a mob.

What   a Chicago Band oflfercy School Girl Did'.
  A  pair of  mud-bespattered  and tired horses
struggled along near Douglas  school yesterday.
The driver, a burly Irishman, occasionally swung
a black-snake Whip in the air and brought it down
on the steaming flanks of the horses. The wagon
was heaped  with a load of hard coal; the street
was rough and muddy. Just   opposite the school
house  the man  swung  into a mud   hole.  The
wheels sank in the yielding earth and the black-
snake hissed through the air, the horses plunged
wildly, and the pole pounded each horse alternate-
ly, but never an inch did the wagon move.  The
driver sawed the lines until blood trickled from
the months of the horses.  Still the wheels re-
mained  buried in the mud.  The  driver climbed
down  from his perch.  Ie  inspected the wheels
with a critical eye. Evidently satisfied that the
fault lay with the team, he resumed the argument
of the black-snake.  A well dressed man stopped
on the sidewalk.
    You ought  to be arrested for abusing those
horses, he at last remarked.
   The divil yer soy, irreverently responded the
teamster.  Do  yer think oin doin' this fer fun ?
  He  then industriously went to work  with the
whip  again.
   I'm a member  of the Humane  society, and if
you don't stop beating those horses I'll have you
  ''0 yer are, are yez? Oi'll give yez a taste o'
whip  yersilf in a hoully minit if ye don't leave me
  Crack!  crack! went the whip again.  A peal of
childish laughter came out of the school building,
and  a minute later a throng of the younger pupils
appeared, bound  for home.  The little ones paus-
ed at the sight of the struggling horses and the
swinging  whip, paused just a moment.  Then out
sprang a bright-eyed little girl right into the mud
in the street.
   Aint you 'shamed,  you big, bad  man ? she
 cried, while the wind tossed the light brown locks
 about her flushing face, and the little hands. were
 clinched. You  must stop.
   The teamster paused in amazement.    The big
 whip trailed in the mud.
   Wall, wall, wall, he gasped;  who   be ye,
 little 'un ? Wan uv  the Humane   s'i'ity ? He
 tried to laugh.
    Yes, I am; here's my star. Now please don't
 hit them any more, said the little beauty, easting

a pleading glance in imitation of the arts of more
mature womanhood. It was all done in a mo-
ment.  The  man on the street had not even started
for a policeman.
   Oi don't know what the divil Oi kin do, des-
perately answered  the burly teamster, suddenly
becoming  very passive. He  sat down on the curb-
stone.  Just then an empty coal-wagon camse rat-
ting down  the street.  Say, will ye give me a
pull ? yelled the teamster, springing to his feet.
   Of  course, said the other driver. He  un-
hitched his team and hooked on to the pole of the
mud-clogged  coal wagon.   The team  had rested.
Two  teams pulled together, and, amid the juve-
nile applause, the heavily laden wagon was landed
high and dry on the pavement of the cross-street.
  She's   amost  loike little Peppy wat's gone,
said the driver to himself, as he glanced  back
from  his seat at the retreating form  of the victo-
rious little girl. Two little white streams coursed
through the coal dust on his cheeks.
                          -Chicago  Drtily News.

               Saved by His Soui.
         It was getting near the gloaming,
         As  toward the westering sun
         In the woodland I went roaming,
         With  my powder-horn and gun.
         Now Dmy gun was double-barrelled,
         Loaded  with the nurd'rous lead;
         And a red-bird sat andcarolled
         On  a bough above my head.
         There he sat, and sang, and revelled
           In the light of heaven so blest;
         But my cruel piece was levelled
           At the gentle songster's breast.
         Yet he still was fain to linger
           On that leafy bough and sing;
         But my heart forbade my linger
           To impress the fatal spring.
         No, I'll not attempt thy capture,
           Nor destroy thy tuneful breath;
         Better far thy song of rapture
           Than the silent hush of death!
         So my weapon downward bringing,
           On my homeward road I sped;
         And I left the red-bird singing
           On the bough above my head.
                                 -John Franklyn.

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