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eight thousan' men-picked men, most on 'em. Can you take the job on?
"No," sez Nelson, "'tain't fair to arst me. "Tain't in my line, sez 'ee. 'Ain't Garnet a-goin' to do it?'
“ 'No,' sez the Dook, 'Garnet won't touch it.'
“ 'Well, then,' sez Nelson, there's ony one man as I knows on wot can take this 'ere job on.'
“ 'Who's that?' sez the Dook.
“Well, o' course,' sez the Dook, 'why, wot a hold juggins I must a-bin not to a-thought o’Bill! Course, Bill's the werry man for the job ! and the Dook 'ee whistles me up.
“I wos jest down in- the canteen a-havin' a-half a cup o' tea, and I goes up and I sez, 'Well, Nosey, wot's up; wot is it?' I mostly called 'im Nosey; we wos werry familiar, we wos, them times.
'Well,' 'ee sez, ‘Bill, I won't deceive yer, I'm in a bit of an 'ole. I've ony got about a 'undered and fifty men awailable, and 'ere's Bonyparty a-comin' over the ill with a million o''menpicked men, most on 'em. Can you take the job on?'
“Well, Harthur,' I sez, ‘I think I can pull yer through. How mony men wos yer a-thinkin' o' givin’ me?'
“ 'Well,' he sez, 'take wot yer want, William. Well, I takes about a ’undered on 'em. I knowed jest wot they could do; and we goes a-marchin' up the 'ill.
"Jest as we gets to the top, and we wos a-gettin' ready to wipe 'em out, I looks round the corner, and I see Bonyparty and Napoleon and Blucher a-hidin' behind a tree.
“Napoleon and Bonyparty wos a-lafin' at our little lot; but hold Blucher 'ee looks round the other side the tree, and when 'ee see me, ’ee turns as white as a sheet. Then 'ee sez to Bonyparty and Napoleon, ‘You’re a-larfin' at 'em, gentlemen, ain't yer; but,' sez 'e, ‘do yer see who's a-leadin' these 'ere men ?'
“No,' sez Bonyparty, 'can't say as I knows ’im. Who is it?'
“Well,' sez Blucher, ‘doan't yer go and do nothin' rash. That's Bill Adams !!!
“What!!'sez Bonyparty, ‘is that Bill a-leadin' on ’em?' “ 'It is,' sez Blucher.
"Why, good grashush,' sez Bony, ‘so it is. It's old Bill Adams, wot gave me such pepper at Balaclava.'
“Then 'ee turns round to 'is army, and 'ee shouts out
“ 'Right about turn; there won't be no fight. Get off the grass, if
yer doan't all want to be eat up. 'Ere's Bill Adams a-comin'!'
"Well, that's the way me and the Dook of Wellington won the battle of Worterloo, boys.”
GAME OF LIFE.
AN'S life is like a game of cards. First it is “Cribbage.”
Next he tries to "go it alone” at a sort of “cut, shuffle and deal” pace.
Then he “raises” the “duce” when his mother "takes a hand in," and, contrary to Hoyle, "beats the little joker with her five.” Then with his "diamonds“ he wins the "queen of hearts." Tired of playing a “lone hand,” he expresses a desire to "assist” his fair "partner," "throws out his cards," and the clergyman takes a ten-dollar-bill out of him on a “pair.” She “orders him up” to build fires. Like a “knave” he joins the “clubs," where he often gets "high," which is "low," too. If he keeps “straight" he is oftentimes “flush.” He grows old and "bluff,” sees a “deal” of trouble, when at last he "shuffles” off his mortal coil and "passes in his checks” and he is "raked in” by a "spade.” Life's fitful “game” is ended, and he waits the summons of Gabriel's “trump” which shall “order him up.”
PROFESSOR. Miss Vassargirl, what's the difference between a poet and a musician?
Miss VASSARGIRL. A musician has long hair that stands up while a poet has long hair that hangs down.
CHARACTERS: PERE GORIOT, speaker present; RASTIGNAC, law
student, supposed to be present. COSTUME Costume: House-robe over night-clothes, slippers (see illustra
[Anastasie and Delphine, both married to rich and elegant men, are daughters of Père Goriot, who has given his life to them; for them he amassed a fortune; for them he tried to become acquainted with aristocratic society. He tried in every possible way to secure their happiness. All his money has been taken by them. Now he is dying. A few days before, Delphine came to her father, and, bursting into tears, told him that her husband was a villain. She bitterly upbraided her father for marrying her to such a man. A little later, Anastasie came to say that to save her lover from ruin she had sold her husband's family diamonds. Her husband had discovered her crime, and demanded that she sign her property over to him for the support of their child. He also insisted that she go to a ball and wear the diamonds which he had redeemed. She had ordered a beautiful gown for the occasion, but the dressmaker refused to deliver it unless she were paid. She could not go to her husband for the money, and she would not go to the ball in an old gown. Père Goriot, broken-hearted by his daughter's distress, fixed himself up the best he could and went to sell family heirlooms. He returned very ill, expecting Nasie to come and thank him, but she sent her maid for the money. Eugene de Rastignac, a law-student living in the same house with Père Goriot, when he saw how near death the old man was, went to Delphine to tell her, thinking that she would hasten to her father. But she declined to give up the ball. Rastignac is alone with Père Goriot, who is reclining on a couch, and slowly opens his eyes.]
H! is that you, my dear boy? Did you see my daughters?
I have no know I am ill. Last night all my fuel was burned. money.
I have given it all away-all! [Rises on one arm.] Was the dress of gold tissue handsome? [Clasps head.] Ah,
how I suffer! [Eagerly.) My daughters said they would be here, did they not? Send for them again. Tell them that I should like to see them—to kiss them before I die. [Falls back erhausted. A pause of several seconds. Lies with closed eyes.]
They will come. I know them. Dear, kind Delphine-if I die, what sorrow I shall cause her; and Nasie, too. [Openis eyes.] I don't want to die! To die is not to see them. Hell, to a father, is to be without his children. [Voice changes to infinite tenderness. My heaven was in our home. ]
I can see them now, as they were in our old home. “Good morning, papa," they used to say. I took them on my knee and played with thema thousand little tricks; they caressed me so tenderly. I was happy in my children. [Stretches out arms.] If I could but hold them in my arms I should not suffer so. Are they coming? Will they come? [Another pause of exhaustion. Then, eagerly.] You saw them at the ball ? They did not know that I was ill, did they? They would not have danced, poor darlings! Oh! I must not be ill—they need me; their fortunes are in danger. [Starts up madly, crying out.] Save me! cure me—I must be
-I cured, for they need money, and I know how to make it. [Very rapidly.] I'm shrewd; I shall make millions. Oh, I suffer too much!—too much! [Falls back, half crying.] If they were here I would not complain.
[Starts up again as though some one entered.] Ah, they are coming?. Not coming! You do not mean they are not coming! Neither of them coming! Neither! We must die, to know what our children are. Friend, never marry; never have children. You give them life—they give you death. You bring them into the world—they drive you out of it.
Ah, if I were rich; if I had kept my fortune; if I had not given them all, all—they would be here, they would lick my cheeks with kisses. I should live in a mansion; I should have servants, a fire. They would be all in tears—husbands and children. All would be mine—but now, nothing; I have nothing Money gives all things, even children.