Vegecide, the cutting of cooked potatoes and garden truck with a knife, is the only rowtch that obtains in high life.
A conscientious eater was
My mother’s Uncle Bill;
We liked to see him eat, because
He liked to eat his fill.
And when he’d rowtched the meat and bread
And things all out of sight,
He pushed away his plate and said
“Lord, where’s my appetite!”
Skinje, v. To feel shudderingly; to annoy your fingers; to shrink from; to set your teeth on edge.
Skinjed, p.p. To have one’s tactile nerves outraged.
Skin´jid, a. Harsh, rough or gritty.
Did you ever skinje a broken finger-nail on satin? “Alias, Jimmy Valentine” can rub his finger-tips on sandpaper, but it’s too skinjid for poor little Me.
My Aunt Eliza’s hands are skinjid; no wonder, she will wash them in soft-soap. And every time I kiss her chapped lips, I am horribly skinjed. (See Vorge.)
James Whitcomb Riley, in a pathetic little verse, tells of a sensitive, delicate young lady who loved to draw her finger-nails in long, sweet scratches down the plastered walls, skinjing them pathetically. You and I prefer to scratch bricks or blackboards—they are more skinjid. Do new towels skinje you? Do you skinje at wet velvet? Can you bite a skinjid file? Your collar—has it a skinjid edge?
“Put more starch in them lace curtains before you iron ’em,” says Mrs. O’Hatchet to the hired girl. “Mr. Masters always likes to feel of ’em before he goes to bed.” (See Kripsle.)