THE PHOTOGRAPHS

To-day I was let sit up, tucked up in a quilt in a arm-chare. I soon got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to get me a glass o’ ice-water to squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into Susan’s room to look at all them fotografs of nice young men she’s got there in a drawer.

The girls was all down in the parlour, ’cos Miss Watson had come to call. Betty she came a huntin’ me, but I hid in the closet behind a old hoop-skirt. I come out when she went away, and had a real good time. Some o’ them fotografs was written on the back, like this: “Conseated fop!” “Oh, ain’t he sweet?” “He ast me, but I wouldn’t have him.” “A perfect darling!” “What a mouth!” “Portrait of a donkey!”

I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I got well. I shut the drawer so Sue wouldn’t notice they was took. I felt as if I could not bare to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired of it, an’ I thought I’d pass my time a playing I was a young lady. I found a lot o’ little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my forehead with a bottle of mewsiledge, and then I seen some red stuff on a sawcer, wich I rubbed onto my cheaks. When I was all fixed up I slid down the bannisters plump against Miss Watson, wot was sayin’ good-bye to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they made!

“Have you ever been photographed, Uncle?”

“Yes, Tommy.”

“What for?”

PORTRAIT OF A DISTINGUISHED PHOTOGRAPHER,
Who has just succeeded in focussing a view to his complete satisfaction.

Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie:

“Where did you get them pretty red cheeks, Geordie?”

Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t know it.

“I found some red stuff in Sue’s drawer,” sez I, and she smiled kind o’ hateful, and said:

“Oh!”

My sister says she is an awful gossip, which will tell all over town that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that sawcer was gust to make roses on card-bord, wich is all right.

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

“Aha, missy!” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them fotografs wot I took out o’ your drawer!”

Some folks think little boys’ ears are made on purpose to be boxed—my sisters do. If they knew what dark and desperate thoughts come into little boys’ minds, they’d be more careful—it riles ’em up like pokin’ sticks into a mud puddel.

A PHOTOGRAPHIC PICTURE. (1853.)
Old Lady (who is not used to these new-fangled notions). Oh, sir! please, sir! don’t, sir! Don’t for goodness’ sake fire; sir!

I laid low—but beware to-morrow!

They let me come down to breakfast this mornin’.

I’ve got those pictures all in my pockets, you bet your life.

“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a chance to slip out unbeknone.

“Oh, things,” sez I, an’ she laughed.

“I thought mebbe you’d got your books and cloathes packed up in ’em,” sez she, “to run away an’ be a Injun warryor.”

I didn’t let on anything, but ansered her:

“I’ll just go out in the backyard an’ play a spell.”

Well, I got to town, an’ had a lot of fun. I called on’ all the aboriginals of them fotografs.

“Hello, Georgie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.

Oh, my! when I get big enuff I’ll hope my mustaches won’t be waxed like his’n! He’s in a store, an’ I got him to give me a nice cravat, an’ he ast me “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his fotograf, and gave it to him.

It was the one that had “Conseated Fop!” writ on the back. The girls had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, an’ made him smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, an’ then he skowled at me:

“Who did that, you little rascal!”

“I should say the spirits did it,” I said, as onest as a owl, an’ I went away quick cause he looked mad.

The nex plaice I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man lived. He had red hair an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a beauty. I said:

“Hello, Peters!”

He said:

“The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help yourself.”

Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treted well, I notiss. I took a big hanful of raisins an’ sot on the counter eating ’em, till all at oncest, as if I jest thought of it, I took out his fotograf an’ squinted at it, an sez:

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let me see it,” sez he.

I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back, “He asked me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as a rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.

ENCOURAGEMENT OF ART.

First curled and powdered Darling (to photographer). You’d better take pains with these ’ere carte de visites, as they’ll be a good deal shown about.

Second curled and powdered Darling (on the sofa). Yes—pertiklerly in the hupper suckles. Get you customers, you know.

“It’s a burning shame,” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun of their bows.”

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins an’ quietly disappeared. I tell you he was rathy!

Mister Courtenay he was a lawyer, he’s got a offis on the square by the cort-house. I knew him very well, ’cause he comes to our house offen. He’s a awful queer-lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he was tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks sez it is, the way he keeps it in the air. He’s got a depe, depe voice way down in his boots. My harte beat wen I got in there, I was that fritened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:

“Is the What is It on exabishun to-day?”

“Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down on me.

“Sue said if I would come to Mister Courtenay’s offis I would see wot this is the picture of,” sez I, givin’ him his own fotograf inskribed, “The Wonderful What is It.”

It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.

In about a minit he up with his foot, wich I dodged just in time. I herd him muttering suthin’ ’bout “suing for scandal.” I think myself I oughter arrest her for ’salt an’ battery, boxing my ears. I wisht he would sue Sue, ’twould serve her right.

I’ll not get to bed fore midnight if I write enny more. I’m yawning now like a dying fish. So, farewell my diry till the next time. I give them cards all back fore dinner-time. There’ll be a row, I expect. I’ve laughed myself almost to fits a thinkin’ of the feller wot I give “The Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress fallen. I do believe he cried. They were teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party nex’ week wen I got home to dinner. I don’t believe one of them young gentlemen will come to it; the girls have give ’em all away. I don’t care tuppence. Wot for do they take such libertys with my ears if they want me to be good to ’em.

P.S.—I bet their left ears are burning wuss’n ever mine did!

Artist! (photographic). You’ve rather a florid complexion, sir, but (producing a flour dredger, to the old gentleman’s horror) if you’ll take a seat, we’ll obviate that immediately.

ARTFUL!

Dodge of little Sperks, showing how parties below the middle height, by the use of miniature background furniture, may gain a more imposing stature in the carte de visite.

SUBJECT FOR A PICTURE.

Photographer. Now, sir! ’ave yer cart de visit done?

PHOTOGRAPHIC BEAUTIES.

“I say, mister, here’s me and my mate wants our fotergruffs took; and mind, we wants ’em ’ansom, cos they’re to give to two ladies.”

WANDERING
MINSTRELS

CHRISTMAS WAITS.