“He says, my friends, that he has always loved and trusted the white people. He says that since he has seen the great cities and towns of the East, he loves his white brothers more than before. His red brothers, White Crow and the Rock on End, wish him to say that they also love you. He says the savage Gray Wolf tribe threaten to shoot and scalp them if they continue friendly to the whites. He asks for powder, guns, and ponies, that they may defend themselves from their enemies. He wants to convince you that they are rapidly becoming a civilized nation. The assistance you are about to give will only be required for a short time. They will soon become self-supporting, and relieve the Government of a heavy tax. They thank you for the kindness you have shown, and for the generous collection which will now be taken up.
“Will some friend close the doors while we give every one an opportunity to contribute to this good cause? Remember that he who shutteth up his ears to the cry of the poor, he shall also cry himself and shall not be heard. Those who prefer can leave a check with Deacon Meekham at the door, or with me at the hotel. These substantial tokens of your regard will cause the wilderness to blossom as the rose.
“In the name of our red brethren, let me again thank you.”
If one inclines to Irish fun, try this burlesque from Mrs. Lippincott.
MISTRESS O’RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
No! I wouldn’t demane myself, Bridget,
Like you, in disputin’ with men—
Would I fly in the face of the blissed
Apostles, an’ Father Maginn?
It isn’t the talent I’m wantin’—
Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,
Made a beautiful last spache and confession
When they hanged him in ould Tipperary.
So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin’
About Womins’ Rights, and all that!
Sure all the rights I want is the one right,
To be a good helpmate to Pat;
For he’s a good husband—and niver
Lays on me the weight of his hand
Except when he’s far gone in liquor,
And I nag him, you’ll plase understand.
Thrue for ye, I’ve one eye in mournin’,
That’s becaze I disputed his right,
To tak’ and spind all my week’s earnin’s
At Tim Mulligan’s wake, Sunday night.
But it’s sildom when I’ve done a washin’,
He’ll ask for more’n half of the pay;
An’ he’ll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,
That’s like a swate mornin’ in May!
Now where, if I rin to convintions,
Will be Patrick’s home-comforts and joys?
Who’ll clane up his broghans for Sunday,
Or patch up his ould corduroys.
If we tak’ to the polls, night and mornin’,
Our dilicate charms will all flee—
The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear,
The down from the pache—don’t you see?
We’ll soon tak’ to shillalahs and shindies
Whin we get to be sovereign electors,
And turn all our husbands’ hearts from us,
Thin what will we do for protectors?
We’ll have to be crowners an’ judges,
An’ such like ould malefactors,
Or they’ll make Common Councilmin of us;
Thin where will be our characters?
Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin’!
For sure as the blissed sun rolls,
We’ll land in the State House or Congress,
Thin what will become of our sowls?
Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.
DOCHTHER O’FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL CURES.
I.
I’m Barney O’Flannigan, lately from Cork;
I’ve crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.
‘Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade;
I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.
Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome ache
In yer jints afther dancin’ a jig at a wake?
Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?
Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?
Whin ye’re walkin’ the shtrates are yez likely to fall?
Don’t whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?
Sure ‘tis botherin’ nonsinse to sit down and wape
Whin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.
Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubt
But as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!
Thin don’t yez be gravin’ no more;
Arrah! quit all yer sighin’ forlorn;
Here’s Barney O’Flannigan right to the fore,
And bedad! he’s a gintleman born!
II.
Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don’t yez be scairt!
Have yez batin’ and lumberin’ thumps at the hairt,
Wid ossification, and acceleration,
Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,
Wid liver inflation and hapitization,
Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,
Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,
Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,
Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,
Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,
Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,
Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?
Be the powers! but I’ll bring all yer woes to complation,
Onless yer in love—thin yer past all salvation!
Coom, don’t yez be gravin’ no more!
Be quit wid yer sighin’ forlorn;
Here’s the man all yer haling potations to pour,
And ye’ll prove him a gintleman born
III.
Sure, me frinds, ‘tis the wondherful luck I have had
In the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.
All the hundhreds I’ve cured ‘tis not aisy to shpake,
And if any sowl dies, faith I’m in at the wake;
There was Misthriss O’Toole was tuck down mighty quare,
That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;
And phat was the matther? Ye’ll like for to hare;
‘Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.
Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,
(Och, murther! but didn’t she howl at the pain!)
Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,
And troth she shtopped howlin’, and lay like a lamb.
Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,
I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.
Och! niver be gravin’ no more!
Phat use av yer sighin’ forlorn?
Me patients are proud av me midical lore—
They’ll shware I’m a gintleman born.
IV.
Well, Misthriss O’Toole was tuck betther at once,
For she riz up in bed and cried: “Paddy, ye dunce!
Give the dochther a dhram.” So I sat at me aise
A-brewin’ the punch jist as fine as ye plaze.
Thin I lift a prascription all written down nate
Wid ametics and diaphoretics complate;
Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet,
And a toddy so shtiff that ye’d all like to thry it.
So Paddy O’Toole mixed ‘em well in a cup—
All barrin’ the toddy, and that be dhrunk up;
For he shwore ‘twas a shame sich good brandy to waste
On a double quotidian faverish taste;
And troth we agrade it was not bad to take,
Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night—at the wake!
Arrah! don’t yez be gravin’ no more,
Wid yer moanin’ and sighin’ forlorn;
Here’s Barney O’Flannigan thrue to the core
Av the hairt of a gintleman born!
V.
There was Michael McDonegan down wid a fit