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LETTER: From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte. WILLIAM NYE'S EXPERIMENT. Angel's. Dear Bret Harte, I'm in tears, And the camp's in the dust, For with anguish it hears As poor William may bust, And the last of the Nyes is in danger of sleeping the sleep of the just. No revolver it was Interfered with his health, The convivial glass Did not harm him by stealth; It was nary!
Concurrent Resolution A "Venomous Fight" Passage in the House The Resolution in the Senate "A Political Wrangle" Deprecated Importance of the Question "A Straw in a Storm" Policy of the President Conversation between two Senators Mr. Nye's Advice to Rebels "A Dangerous Power" "Was Mr. Wade once a Secessionist?"
So, so, my run-a-ways! I shall nab you, shall I?" exclaimed Purley in triumph, as he beckoned the negro imp to jump up behind him. "But stop!" said Robert Munson, in an agony of terror for the safety of Sybil Berners. "Stop! What are you about to do? You are about to abduct Farmer Nye's slave!" "Do you belong to Farmer Nye, boy? Though it don't matter a bit who you belong to.
All that I can honorably do, I will do. My honor is as dear to me as my gas bill every year I live. N. B. The dead horse on lot 9, block 21, Nye's Addition to the Solar System, is not mine. Mine died before I got there. The closing debut of that great Shakespearian humorist and emotional ass, Mr. James Owen O'Connor, at the Star Theater, will never be forgotten.
We have, indeed, told ourselves a thousand times over that bad spelling is not funny, but is very tiresome. Yet it is no sooner laid aside and buried than it gets resurrected. I suppose the real reason is that it is funny, at least to our eyes. When Bill Nye spells wife with "yph" we can't help being amused. Now Bill Nye's bad spelling had absolutely no point to it except its oddity.
"Do you mean that you are afraid?" I inquired. "No, not afeared exactly; it's jest the loneliness the lonely quietness. Why, Lord! you aren't got no notion o' the tricks the trees and 'edges gets up to a' nights nobody 'as but us as tramps the roads. Bill Nye knowed, same as I know, but Bill Nye's dead; cut 'is throat, 'e did, wi' one o' 'is own razors under a 'edge." "And what for?"
Nye's candidacy for the high office to which he aspires has brought him into such prominence that at the mass meeting held last evening in Jimmy Avery's barber-shop, he was recognized at once by a Maine man while making a telling speech in favor of putting in a stone culvert at the draw above Mandel's ranch.
As soon as she was well off from the wind, we filled away the head yards, braced all up sharp, set the foresail and trysail, and left our anchorage well astern, giving the point a good berth. ``Nye's off too, said the captain to the mate; and, looking astern, we could just see the little hermaphrodite brig under sail, standing after us.
Bill Nye's assertion that "the peculiarity of classical music is that it is so much better than it sounds" is typical of a whole battalion of quips. Scenery, even when associated with poetry, fares no better.
"Yet the cards they were stacked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. "But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made. Were quite frightful to see Till at last he put down the right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
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