A few years ago there was some excitement at Grand Rapids over the discovery of a bed or quarry of granite. Some of it was taken out, from the top of the quarry, and polished, and proved to be as fine as any that is imported. Further working of the quarry, however, has developed a strange thing. The further they go down the softer it is, and it has been learned that the quarry is all head cheese, such as is sold by butchers. On top it is petrified, and polishes very nicely, but a little below it is nice and fresh, and can be cut out with a knife, all ready for the table. A friend in Milwaukee, who has an uncle living at Grand Rapids, has furnished us with a quantity of it, some of which we have eaten, and were it not for the fact that we know it came from the quarry, it would be hard to convince us that it was not concocted out of the remains of a butcher shop. The people up there talk of running Hon. J.N. Brundage for Congress, on the head cheese ticket, in order that he may use his influence to get head cheese adopted as an army ration, and also as currency with which to wipe out the national debt.
HIS PA AN INVENTOR.
“Ha! Ha! Now I have got you,” said the grocery man to the had boy, the other morning, as he came in and jumped upon the counter and tied the end of a ball of twine to the tail of a dog, and “sicked” the dog on another dog that was following a passing sleigh, causing the twine to pay out until the whole ball was scattered along the block. “Condemn you, I’ve a notion to choke the liver out of you. Who tied that twine to the dog’s tail?”
The boy choked up with emotion, and the tears came into his eyes, and he said he didn’t know anything about the twine or the dog. He said he noticed the dog come in, and wag his tail around the twine, but he supposed the dog was a friend of the family, and did not disturb him. “Everybody lays everything that is done to me,” said the boy, as he put his handkerchief to his nose, “and, they will be sorry for it when I die. I have a good notion to poison myself by eating some of your glucose sugar.”
“Yes, and you do about everything that is mean. The other day a lady came in and told me to send up to her house, some of my country sausage, done up in muslin bags, and while she was examining it she noticed something hard inside the bags, and asked me what it was, and I opened it, and I hope to die if there wasn’t a little brass padlock and a piece of red morocco dog collar imbedded in the sausage. Now how do you suppose that got in there?” and the grocery man looked savage.
The boy looked interested, and put on an expression as though in deep thought, and finally said, “I suppose the farmer that put up the sausage did not strain the dog meat. Sausage meat ought to be strained.”