The Universal Reciter. Various

SNYDER'S NOSE.

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      "OUR FAT CONTRIBUTOR."

      S NYDER kept a beer saloon some years ago "over the Rhine." Snyder was a ponderous Teuton of very irascible temper—"sudden and quick in quarrel"—get mad in a minute. Nevertheless his saloon was a great resort for "the boys"—partly because of the excellence of his beer, and partly because they liked to chafe "Old Snyder," as they called him; for, although his bark was terrific, experience had taught them that he wouldn't bite.

      One day Snyder was missing; and it was explained by his "frau," who "jerked" the beer that day, that he had "gone out fishing mit der poys." The next day one of the boys, who was particularly fond of "roasting" old Snyder, dropped in to get a glass of beer, and discovered Snyder's nose, which was a big one at any time, swollen and blistered by the sun, until it looked like a dead-ripe tomato.

      "Why, Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?" said the caller.

      "I peen out fishing mit der poys," replied Snyder, laying his finger tenderly against his proboscis; "the sun it pese hot like ash never vas, und I purns my nose. Nice nose, don't it?" And Snyder viewed it with a look of comical sadness in the little mirror back of his bar. It entered at once into the head of the mischievous fellow in front of the bar to play a joke upon Snyder; so he went out and collected half a dozen of his comrades, with whom he arranged that they should drop in at the saloon one after another, and ask Snyder, "What's the matter with that nose?" to see how long he would stand it. The man who put up the job went in first with a companion, and seating themselves at a table called for beer. Snyder brought it to them, and the new-comer exclaimed as he saw him, "Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?"

      "I yust dell your friend here I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun he purnt 'em—zwi lager—den cents—all right."

      Another boy rushes in. "Halloo, boys, you're ahead of me this time; s'pose I'm in, though. Here, Snyder, bring me a glass of lager and a pret"—(appears to catch a sudden glimpse of Snyder's nose, looks wonderingly a moment and then bursts out laughing)—"ha! ha! ha! Why, Snyder—ha!—ha!—what's the matter with that nose?"

      Snyder, of course, can't see any fun in having a burnt nose or having it laughed at; and he says, in a tone sternly emphatic:

      "I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun it yust ash hot ash blazes, unt I purnt my nose; dat ish all right."

      Another tormentor comes in, and insists on "setting 'em up" for the whole house. "Snyder," says he, "fill up the boys' glasses, and take a drink yourse——ho! ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! Snyder, wha—ha! ha!—what's the matter with that nose?"

      Snyder's brow darkens with wrath by this time, and his voice grows deeper and sterner:

      "I peen out fishin' mit der poys on the Leedle Miami. De sun pese hot like ash—vel, I burn my pugle. Now that is more vot I don't got to say. Vot gind o' peseness? Dat ish all right; I purn my own nose, don't it?"

      "Burn your nose—burn all the hair off your head for what I care; you needn't get mad about it."

      It was evident that Snyder wouldn't stand more than one tweak at that nose; for he was tramping about behind his bar, and growling like an exasperated old bear in his cage. Another one of his tormentors walks in. Some one sings out to him, "Have a glass of beer, Billy?"

      "Don't care about any beer," says Billy, "but, Snyder, you may give me one of your best ciga—Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he! ah-h-h-ha! ha! ha! ha! Why—why—Snyder—who who—ha-ha! ha! what's the matter with that nose?"

      Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time; his face was purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared:

"I peen out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never was. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take dose nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit 'em. That's the kind of man vot I am!" And Snyder was right.

THE MISER'S FATE.

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      OSBORNE.

      In the year 1762 a miser, of the name of Foscue, in France, having amassed enormous wealth by habits of extortion and the most sordid parsimony, was requested by the government to advance a sum of money as a loan. The miser demurred, pretending that he was poor. In order to hide his gold effectually, he dug a deep cave in his cellar, the descent to which was by a ladder, and which was entered by means of a trap-door, to which was attached a spring-lock.

      He entered this cave one day to gloat over his gold, when the door fell upon him, and the spring-lock, the key to which he had left on the outside, snapped, and held him a prisoner in the cave, where he perished miserably. Some months afterwards a search was made, and his body was found in the midst of his money-bags, with a candlestick lying beside it on the floor. In the following lines the miser is supposed to have just entered his cave, and to be soliloquizing.

      S

      O, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers—

      Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!

      No keen-eyed agent of the government

      Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,

      To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,

      For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets,

      My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!

      Too well I loved you to do that—and so

      I pleaded poverty, and none could prove

      My story was not true.

      Ha! could they see

      These bags of ducats, and that precious pile

      Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold,

      Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort

      Is it to see my moneys in a heap

      All safely lodged under my very roof!

      Here's a fat bag—let me untie the mouth of it.

      What eloquence! What beauty! What expression!

      Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen look

      One-half so charming? [The trap-door falls.]

      Ah! what sound was that?

      The Trap-door fallen—and the spring-lock caught!

      Well, have I not the key? Of course I have.

      'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. Then

      I left it at the bottom of the ladder.

      Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven!

      'Tis in the lock outside!

      What's to be done?

      Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that I

      Had not discharged old Simon! but he begged

      Each week for wages—would not give me credit.

      I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!

      I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks

      As force it open. Am I here a prisoner,

      And no one in the house? no one at hand,

      Or