The Somerset press. [volume] (Somerset, Ohio) 1873-1977, 1877-02-23
PENCIL AND SCISSORS.

IN olden times there were liars, but
now there are only men who misstate
the facts. This shows that the world
grows more courteous as it increases in
sinfulness.
A WESTERN paper, in describing an
accident recently, says, with considera-
BILE candor: "Doctor Jones was called,
and under his prompt and skillful treat
ment, the young man died on Wednes-
day night"
THE grave of Prentice rests alone,
Without mark, nor WOOD nor stone,
Nor rhythmic epitaph
This should not be, ye writer's just
The life and form that now is dust
Gave to your world the very "fust''
The pithy paragraph.
-Elnaird Advertiser.
PHILOSOPHY is TO poetry what old age
is to youth, and the stern truths of phi
losophy are as fatal to the fctions of the
one as the chilling testimonies of ex-
perience are to the hopes of the other
Cotton.
$50 there's another rupture of Mount
Vociferous," said Mrs. Partington, as
she put down the paper and put up her
specks; "the paper tells us about the
burning lather running down the noun
tain, but it don't tell us how it got on
Ere"
LAY your finger on your pulse and
know that at every stroke some immor-
tai passes to his Maker; some fellow
being crosses the river of death and if
we think of it we may we'll wonder that
it should be so long before our turn
comes.
FORTY millions of people, dedicated
from infancy to alteration of the palla-
dunn of their liberties, will some time or
other flop over upon the inventor of
bulldozing" and mash him down,
down, down into the night of Everlasting
nothingness.
THE murmuring moonbeams their music are mix
ing;
The wandering wombat is watching the wave
The frolicsome frog his finances is fixing,
And the grasshopper gropes in his grandmothers
grave.
Yet dark are the dangers and doubts that distress
me-
A horrible heaviness hangs on my heart;
Come, Caroline come, calm, console and caress me,
And tickle my taste with a turnover tart.
Then vanish, We vain and vouminous vapors,
That buzz in my bosom and bother my brain;
Or promptly I'll publish your pranks in the pa
peTS,
And lay up my lutte till I'm lucid againl
M 7. Euenins Mail.
A hoo1 dc oho,
sent an Iowa editor poem. The next
day the paper poured out half a column
of scarcasm against the young man, and
said that the poetry was not worthy of
an eight-year-old school boy. Then the
rural lad sent the editor a copy of
Horace's Odes, with the leaf turned
down whence he had copied the &c trashy
poem"
A MAN noted for his close-fsted pro-
pensities was showing an old coin to
neighbor, when the latter asked, Where
did you get itF' "I dug it out of my
garden" was the reply. cit is pity
you didn't find it in the cemetery" said
the neighbor. "Why so?" asked the
coin-owner. because you could have
saved the hole to be buried in" was the
somewhat unexpected reply.
Worlds interview with millionaire:
" I tell you, sir, this winter is awful hard
on the rich man. He doesn't even eat
his dinner in peace. How can he, when
there are forty thousand who are dinner
less? His money gets to be a reproach
to him, and he feels as if he'd like to
give the whole of it way in one lump,
and try the luxury of being poor for a
while. But you needn't say anything
about that, or I'll have fresh battalion
here tomorrow, and half the ldlers IN
town will be writing me letters. In fact,
l wouldn't say anything about it if
were you; but it's fact, the rich man
suffers in hard winter a good deal more
than the poor man. You take my word
for it. And the poor don't pity him
bit"