Excerpt from Caricature, 1911: Wit and Humor of a Nation, in Picture, Song, and Story
And even my dear Noah's Ark! It was broken; Still, ev'ry fragment to me was as gold, Standing of life's brightest days as a token, Flooding my soul with the fancies of old.
There in a box were my lit tle kilt dresses, Mittens and socks and a bonnet or two. Even my curls! Ah, those torturing tresses That caused shrieks of woe as the comb wrig gled through!
I made out a list, and what pleasure it gave me! Why should you lie there, thought I, in the dust? Relics of youth, you are destined to save me! I am dead busted, and save me you must!
I rushed to a dealer in sec ond-hand chattels; I showed him the list of old dufile I'd got. I said, I will sell it, from tresses to rattles. How much will you give me, good man, for the lot?
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