"
Mr. BUMSTEAD very carefully poises himself on both feet, puts on his hat
over the wet towel, gives a sudden horrified glance downward toward one
of his boots, and leaps frantically over an object.
"Why, that was only my cane," says EDWIN.
Mr. BUMSTEAD breathes hard, and leans heavily on his nephew as they go
out together.
(_To be Continued._)
* * * * *
~JUMBLES~
PUNCHINELLO has heard, of course, of the good time coming. It has not
come yet. It won't come till the stars sing together in the morning,
after going home, like festive young men, early. It won't come till
Chicago has got its growth in population, morals and ministers. It won't
come till the women are all angels, and men are all honest and wise; not
until politicians and retailers learn to tell the truth. You may think
the Millennium a long way off. Perhaps so. But mighty revolutions are
sometimes wrought in a mighty fast time. Many a fast man has been known
to turn over a new leaf in a single night, and forever afterwards be
slow. Such a thing is dreadful to contemplate, but it has been. Many a
vain woman has seen the folly of her ways at a glance, and at once gone
back on them. This is _not_ dreadful to contemplate, since to go back on
folly is to go onward in wisdom.
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