A Hard-fought Battle--Musquitoes have no Sting that Jersey Lightning
cannot Cure.
New Jarsey is noted among her sister countries, as bein' responsible for
2 of the most destructive things ever got up.
The first is of the animal kingdom, and varyin in size from a 3 yeer old
snappin' turtle, to a lode of hay.
It has a bayonet its nose, in which is a skwirt gun charged with
pizen.
It has no hesitation, whatsoever, of shovin' it's pitch-fork into a
human bein', and when a feller feels it, it makes him think old
SOLFERINO has come for him, and no mistake.
The sirname of this sleep-distroyin' animile, is Muskeeter. And they
like their meet raw.
Misery Number 2 is a beverige manufactured from the compound extract of
chain litenin on the wing, and ile of vitril. It is then flavored with
earysipelas and 7 yeer itch, when it is ready to lay out it's man.
I was on a visit to Jarsey, a short time ago, and if ever a man was
justified in cussin' the day he ever sot foot onto the classick red
shores of New Jarsey, (which soil, by the way, is so greasy that all the
red-headed New Jarsey gals use it for hair ile, while for greasin' a
pancake griddle it can't be beat,) it was the undersined.
The first nite I was in that furrin climb, after hangin' my close over a
chair, and droppin' my false teeth in a tumbler of water, I retired in a
sober and morril condition.
"Balmy sleep, sweet nater's hair restorer," which sentiment I cote from
Mr. DICKENS, who, I understand from the Bosting clergy, is now sizzlin',
haden't yet folded me in her embrace.
Strains of melody, surpassin' by severil lengths the melifflous
discordant notes of the one-armed hand organist's most sublimerest
seemfunny, sircharged the atmosfear. Ever and anon the red-hot breezes
kissed the honest old man's innocent cheek, and slobbered grate capsules
of odoriferous moisture, which ran in little silvery streams from his
reclinin' form. Yes! verily, great pearls hung pendant from his nasal
protuberants.
In other words, I hadent gone to sleep, but lay their sweatin' like an
ice waggon, while the well-known battle song of famished Muskeeters fell
onto my ear. The music seized; and a regiment of Jarsey Muskeeters, all
armed to the teeth and wearin' cowhide butes, marched single-file into
my open window.
The Kernal, a gray-headed old war-worn vetenary, alited from his hoss,
and tide the animal to the bed-post.
The Commander then mounted ontop of the wash-stand, and helpin' hisself
to a chaw of tobacker out of my box, which lay aside him, the old
scoundrel commenced firin' his tobacker juice in my new white hat. "See
here, Kernal," said I, somewhat riled at seein' him make a spittoon of
my best 'stove-pipe,' "if it's all the same to you, spose'n you eject
your vile secretion out of the winder."
"Cork up, old man," said the impudent raskle, "or ile spit on ye and
drown you."
All about the room the privates were sacreligously misusing my property.
One red-headed old Muskeeter, who was so full of somebody's blood he
couldn't hardly waddle, was seated in the rockin'-chair, and with my
specturcols on his nose, was readin' a copy of PUNCHINELLO, and laffin'
as if heed bust.
Another chap had got my jack-nife, and was amusin' hisself by slashin'
holes in my bloo cotton umbreller, which two other Muskeeters had shoved
up, and was a settin' under, engaged in tyin' my panterloon legs into
hard nots.
Another scallawag had jammed my coat part way into my butes, and was
pourin' water into 'em out from the wash-pitcher, and I am sorry to say
it, evry darned Muskeeter was up to some mean trick, which would put to
blush, even a member of the New Jarsey legislater.
Suddenly the Kernal hollered:
"To arms!"
And every Muskeeter fell into line about my bedside.
"Charge bagonets!" said the Kernal. At which the hul lot went for me.
Their pizened wepins entered my flesh.
They charged onto my bald head. Rammed their bayonets into my arms--my
back--my side--and there wasen't a place bigger'n a cent, which they
diden't fill with pizen.
There I lay, groanin' for mercy.
But Jersey Muskeeters, not dealin' in that article, don't know what it
is.
Like the new collecter MURFY, when choppin' off the heads of FENTON
offis holders, mercy hain't their lay, about these times.
At this juncture a company of draggoons clinchin' their pesky bills into
me, dragged me off onto the floor.
And then such a horrible laff they would give, when I would strike for
them and miss hittin'.
There I lay on the floor, puffin' and blowin' like a steem ingine, while
the hull army was dancin' a war dance around my prostrate figger, and
the old Kernal was cuttin' down a double shuffle on the wash-stand,
which made the crockery rattle.
I kicked at 'em as they would charge on my feet and l--limbs. I grabbed
at 'em, as they charged on my face--arms--and shoulders.
Slap! bang! kick! sware!