“The barber from the village?”
“No.”
“Maybe”–here the sentry laughed–“maybe you’re the major himself?”
“That’s right. I am the major,” was the stern reply.
The sentry scrambled to his feet.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “Hold the pie, will you, while I present arms!”
The battle was going against him. The commander-in-chief, himself ruler of the South American republic, sent an aide to the rear, ordering General Blanco to bring up his regiment at once. Ten minutes passed; but it didn’t come. Twenty, thirty, and an hour–still no regiment. The aide came tearing back hatless, breathless.
“My regiment! My regiment! Where is it? Where is it?” shrieked the commander.
“General,” answered the excited aide, “Blanco started it all right, but there are a couple of drunken Americans down the road and they won’t let it go by.”
An army officer decided to see for himself how his sentries were doing their duty. He was somewhat surprised at overhearing the following:
“Halt! Who goes there?”
“Friend–with a bottle.”
“Pass, friend. Halt, bottle.”
“A war is a fearful thing,” said Mr. Dolan.
“It is,” replied Mr. Rafferty. “When you see the fierceness of members of the army toward one another, the fate of a common enemy must be horrible.”
_See also_ Military Discipline.
ARMY RATIONS
The colonel of a volunteer regiment camping in Virginia came across a private on the outskirts of the camp, painfully munching on something. His face was wry and his lips seemed to move only with the greatest effort.
“What are you eating?” demanded the colonel.
“Persimmons, sir.”
“Good Heavens! Haven’t you got any more sense than to eat persimmons at this time of the year? They’ll pucker the very stomach out of you.”
“I know, sir. That’s why I’m eatin’ ’em. I’m tryin’ to shrink me stomach to fit me rations.”
On the occasion of the annual encampment of a western militia, one of the soldiers, a clerk who lived well at home, was experiencing much difficulty in disposing of his rations.
A fellow-sufferer nearby was watching with no little amusement the first soldier’s attempts to Fletcherize a piece of meat. “Any trouble, Tom?” asked the second soldier sarcastically.
“None in particular,” was the response. Then, after a sullen survey of the bit of beef he held in his hand, the amateur fighter observed:
“Bill, I now fully realize what people mean when they speak of the sinews of war.”–_Howard Morse_.
ART
There was an old sculptor named Phidias, Whose knowledge of Art was invidious.
He carved Aphrodite
Without any nightie–
Which startled the purely fastidious.
–_Gilbert K. Chesterton_.
The friend had dropped in to see D’Auber, the great animal painter, put the finishing touches on his latest painting. He was mystified, however, when D’Auber took some raw meat and rubbed it vigorously over the painted rabbit in the foreground.
“Why on earth did you do that?” he asked.
“Why you see,” explained D’Auber, “Mrs Millions is coming to see this picture today. When she sees her pet poodle smell that rabbit, and get excited over it, she’ll buy it on the spot.”
A young artist once persuaded Whistler to come and view his latest effort. The two stood before the canvas for some moments in silence. Finally the young man asked timidly, “Don’t you think, sir, that this painting of mine is–well–er–tolerable?”
Whistler’s eyes twinkled dangerously.
“What is your opinion of a tolerable egg?” he asked.
The amateur artist was painting sunset, red with blue streaks and green dots.
The old rustic, at a respectful distance, was watching.
“Ah,” said the artist looking up suddenly, “perhaps to you, too, Nature has opened her sky picture page by page! Have you seen the lambent flame of dawn leaping across the livid east; the red-stained, sulphurous islets floating in the lake of fire in the west; the ragged clouds at midnight, black as a raven’s wing, blotting out the shuddering moon?”
“No,” replied the rustic, “not since I give up drink.”
Art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life.–_Jean Paul Richter_.
Now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being both the servants of His providence. Art is the perfection of nature. Were the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for nature is the art of God.–_Sir Thomas Browne_.
ARTISTS
ARTIST–“I’d like to devote my last picture to a charitable purpose.”
CRITIC–“Why not give it to an institution for the blind?”
“Wealth has its penalties.” said the ready-made philosopher.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Cumrox. “I’d rather be back at the dear old factory than learning to pronounce the names of the old masters in my picture-gallery.”
CRITIC–“By George, old chap, when I look at one of your paintings I stand and wonder–”
ARTIST–“How I do it?”
CRITIC “No; why you do it.”
He that seeks popularity in art closes the door on his own genius: as he must needs paint for other minds, and not for his own.–_Mrs. Jameson_.
ATHLETES
The caller’s eye had caught the photograph of Tommie Billups, standing on the desk of Mr. Billups.
“That your boy, Billups?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Billups, “he’s a sophomore up at Binkton College.”
“Looks intellectual rather than athletic,” said the caller.
“Oh, he’s an athlete all right,” said Billups. “When it comes to running up accounts, and jumping his board-bill, and lifting his voice, and throwing a thirty-two pound bluff, there isn’t a gladiator in creation that can give my boy Tommie any kind of a handicap. He’s just written for an extra check.”
“And as a proud father you are sending it, I don’t doubt,” smiled the caller.
“Yes,” grinned Billups; “I am sending him a rain-check I got at the hall-game yesterday. As an athlete, he’ll appreciate its value.”–_J.K.B_.
ATTENTION
The supervisor of a school was trying to prove that children are lacking in observation.
To the children he said, “Now, children, tell me a number to put on the board.”
Some child said, “Thirty-six.” The supervisor wrote sixty-three.
He asked for another number, and seventy-six was given. He wrote sixty-seven.
When a third number was asked, a child who apparently had paid no attention called out:
“Theventy-theven. Change _that_ you thucker!”
AUTHORS
The following is a recipe for an author:
Take the usual number of fingers,
Add paper, manila or white,
A typewriter, plenty of postage
And something or other to write.
–_Life_.
Oscar Wilde, upon hearing one of Whistler’s _bon mots_ exclaimed: “Oh, Jimmy; I wish I had said that!” “Never mind, dear Oscar,” was the rejoinder, “you will!”
THE AUTHOR–“Would you advise me to get out a small edition?”
THE PUBLISHER–“Yes, the smaller the better. The more scarce a book is at the end of four or five centuries the more money you realize from it.”
AMBITIOUS AUTHOR–“Hurray! Five dollars for my latest story, ‘The Call of the Lure!'”
FAST FRIEND–“Who from?”
AMBITIOUS AUTHOR–“The express company. They lost it.”
A lady who had arranged an authors’ reading at her house succeeded in persuading her reluctant husband to stay home that evening to assist in receiving the guests. He stood the entertainment as long as he could–three authors, to be exact–and then made an excuse that he was going to open the front door to let in some fresh air. In the hall he found one of the servants asleep on a settee.
“Wake up!” he commanded, shaking the fellow roughly. “What does this mean, your being asleep out here? You must have been listening at the keyhole.”
An ambitious young man called upon a publisher and stated that he had decided to write a book.
“May I venture to inquire as to the nature of the book you propose to write?” asked the publisher, very politely.
“Oh,” came in an offhand way from the aspirant to literary fame, “I think of doing something on the line of ‘Les Miserables,’ only livelier, you know.”
“So you have had a long siege of nervous prostration?” we say to the haggard author. “What caused it? Overwork?”
“In a way, yes,” he answers weakly. “I tried to do a novel with a Robert W. Chambers hero and a Mary E. Wilkins heroine.”–_Life_.
Mark Twain at a dinner at the Authors’ Club said: “Speaking of fresh eggs, I am reminded of the town of Squash. In my early lecturing days I went to Squash to lecture in Temperance Hall, arriving in the afternoon. The town seemed very poorly billed. I thought I’d find out if the people knew anything at all about what was in store for them. So I turned in at the general store. ‘Good afternoon, friend,’ I said to the general storekeeper. ‘Any entertainment here tonight to help a stranger while away his evening?’ The general storekeeper, who was sorting mackerels, straightened up, wiped his briny hands on his apron, and said: ‘I expect there’s goin’ to be a lecture. I’ve been sellin’ eggs all day.”
An American friend of Edmond Rostand says that the great dramatist once told him of a curious encounter he had had with a local magistrate in a town not far from his own.
It appears that Rostand had been asked to register the birth of a friend’s newly arrived son. The clerk at the registry office was an officious little chap, bent on carrying out the letter of the law. The following dialogue ensued:
“Your name, sir?”
“Edmond Rostand.”
“Vocation?”
“Man of letters, and member of the French Academy.”
“Very well, sir. You must sign your name. Can you write? If not, you may make a cross.”–_Howard Morse_.
George W. Cable, the southern writer, was visiting a western city where he was invited to inspect the new free library. The librarian conducted the famous writer through the building until they finally reached the department of books devoted to fiction.
“We have all your books, Mr. Cable,” proudly said the librarian. “You see there they are–all of them on the shelves there: not one missing.”
And Mr. Cable’s hearty laugh was not for the reason that the librarian thought!
Brief History of a Successful Author: From ink-pots to flesh-pots–_R.R. Kirk_.
“It took me nearly ten years to learn that I couldn’t write stories.”
“I suppose you gave it up then?”
“No, no. By that time I had a reputation.”
“I dream my stories,” said Hicks, the author.
“How you must dread going to bed!” exclaimed Cynicus.
The five-year-old son of James Oppenheim, author of “The Olympian,” was recently asked what work he was going to do when he became a man. “Oh,” Ralph replied, “I’m not going to work at all.” “Well, what are you going to do, then?” he was asked. “Why,” he said seriously, “I’m just going to write stories, like daddy.”
William Dean Howells is the kindliest of critics, but now and then some popular novelist’s conceit will cause him to bristle up a little.
“You know,” said one, fishing for compliments, “I get richer and richer, but all the same I think my work is falling off. My new work is not so good as my old.”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Mr. Howells. “You write just as well as you ever did. Your taste is improving, that’s all.”
James Oliver Curwood, a novelist, tells of a recent encounter with the law. The value of a short story he was writing depended upon a certain legal situation which he found difficult to manage. Going to a lawyer of his acquaintance he told him the plot and was shown a way to the desired end. “You’ve saved me just $100,” he exclaimed, “for that’s what I am going to get for this story.”
A week later he received a bill from the lawyer as follows: “For literary advice, $100.” He says he paid.
“Tried to skin me, that scribbler did!”
“What did he want?”
“Wanted to get out a book jointly, he to write the book and I to write the advertisements. I turned him down. I wasn’t going to do all the literary work.”
At a London dinner recently the conversation turned to the various methods of working employed by literary geniuses. Among the examples cited was that of a well-known poet, who, it is said, was wont to arouse his wife about four o’clock in the morning and exclaim, “Maria, get up; I’ve thought of a good word!” Whereupon the poet’s obedient helpmate would crawl out of bed and make a note of the thought-of word.
About an hour later, like as not, a new inspiration would seize the bard, whereupon he would again arouse his wife, saying, “Maria, Maria, get up! I’ve thought of a better word!”
The company in general listened to the story with admiration, but a merry-eyed American girl remarked: “Well, if he’d been my husband I should have replied, ‘Alpheus, get up yourself; I’ve thought of a bad word!'”
“There is probably no hell for authors in the next world–they suffer so much from critics and publishers in this.”–_Bovee_.
A thought upon my forehead,
My hand up to my face;
I want to be an author,
An air of studied grace!
I want to be an author,
With genius on my brow;
I want to be an author,
And I want to be it now!
–_Ella Hutchison Ellwanger_.
That writer does the most, who gives his reader the most knowledge, and takes from him the least time.–_C.C. Colton_.
Habits of close attention, thinking heads, Become more rare as dissipation spreads, Till authors hear at length one general cry Tickle and entertain us, or we die!
–_Cowper_.
The author who speaks about his own books is almost as bad as a mother who talks about her own children.–_Disraeli_.
AUTOMOBILES
TEACHER–“If a man saves $2 a week, how long will it take him to save a thousand?”
BOY–“He never would, ma’am. After he got $900 he’d buy a car.”
“How fast is your car, Jimpson?” asked Harkaway.
“Well,” said Jimpson, “it keeps about six months ahead of my income generally.”
“What is the name of your automobile?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What do your folks call it?”
“Oh, as to that, father always says ‘The Mortgage’; brother Tom calls it ‘The Fake’; mother, ‘My Limousine’; sister, ‘Our Car’; grandma, ‘That Peril’; the chauffeur, ‘Some Freak,’ and our neighbors, ‘The Limit.'”–_Life_.
“What little boy can tell me the difference between the ‘quick’ and the ‘dead?'” asked the Sunday-school teacher.
Willie waved his hand frantically.
“Well, Willie?”
“Please, ma’am, the ‘quick’ are the ones that get out of the way of automobiles; the ones that don’t are the ‘dead.'”
“Do you have much trouble with your automobile?”
“Trouble! Say, I couldn’t have more if I was married to the blamed machine.”
A little “Brush” chugged painfully up to the gate of a race track.
The gate-keeper, demanding the usual fee for automobiles, called:
“A dollar for the car!”
The owner looked up with a pathetic smile of relief and said:
“Sold!”
Autos rush in where mortgages have dared to tread.
_See also_ Fords; Profanity.
AUTOMOBILING
“Sorry, gentlemen,” said the new constable, “but I’ll hev to run ye in. We been keepin’ tabs on ye sence ye left Huckleberry Corners.”
“Why, that’s nonsense!” said Dubbleigh. “It’s taken us four hours to come twenty miles, thanks to a flabby tire. That’s only five miles an hour.”
“Sure!” said the new constable, “but the speed law round these here parts is ten mile an hour, and by Jehosophat I’m goin’ to make you ottermobile fellers live up to it.”
Two street pedlers in Bradford, England, bought a horse for $11.25. It was killed by a motor-car one day and the owner of the car paid them $115 for the loss. Thereupon a new industry sprang up on the roads of England.
“It was very romantic,” says the friend. “He proposed to her in the automobile.”
“Yes?” we murmur, encouragingly.
“And she accepted him in the hospital.”
“What you want to do is to have that mudhole in the road fixed,” said the visitor.
“That goes to show,” replied Farmer Corntassel, “how little you reformers understand local conditions. I’ve purty nigh paid off a mortgage with the money I made haulm’ automobiles out o’ that mud-hole.”
The old lady from the country and her small son were driving to town when a huge automobile bore down upon them. The horse was badly frightened and began to prance, whereupon the old lady leaped down and waved wildly to the chauffeur, screaming at the top of her voice.
The chauffeur stopped the car and offered to help get the horse past.
“That’s all right,” said the boy, who remained composedly in the carriage, “I can manage the horse. You just lead Mother past.”
“What makes you carry that horrible shriek machine for an automobile signal?”
“For humane reasons.” replied Mr. Chugging. “If I can paralyze a person with fear he will keep still and I can run to one side of him.”
In certain sections of West Virginia there is no liking for automobilists, as was evidenced in the case of a Washingtonian who was motoring in a sparsely settled region of the State.
This gentleman was haled before a local magistrate upon the complaint of a constable. The magistrate, a good-natured man, was not, however, absolutely certain that the Washingtonian’s car had been driven too fast; and the owner stoutly insisted that he had been progressing at the rate of only six miles an hour.
“Why, your Honor,” he said, “my engine was out of order, and I was going very slowly because I was afraid it would break down completely. I give you my word, sir, you could have walked as fast as I was running.”
“Well,” said the magistrate, after due reflection, “you don’t appear to have been exceeding the speed limit, but at the same time you must have been guilty of something, or you wouldn’t be here. I fine you ten dollars for loitering.”–_Fenimore Martin_.
AVIATION
The aviator’s wife was taking her first trip with her husband in his airship. “Wait a minute, George,” she said. “I’m afraid we will have to go down again.”
“What’s wrong?” asked her husband.
“I believe I have dropped one of the pearl buttons off my jacket. I think I can see it glistening on the ground.”
“Keep your seat, my dear,” said the aviator, “that’s Lake Erie.”
AVIATOR (to young assistant, who has begun to be frightened)–“Well, what do you want now?”
ASSISTANT (whimpering)–“I want the earth.”–_Abbie C. Dixon_.
When Claude Grahame-White the famous aviator, author of “The Aeroplane in War,” was in this country not long ago, he was spending a week-end at a country home. He tells the following story of an incident that was very amusing to him.
“The first night that I arrived, a dinner party was given. Feeling very enthusiastic over the recent flights, I began to tell the young woman who was my partner at the table of some of the details of the aviation sport.
“It was not until the dessert was brought on that I realized that I had been doing all the talking; indeed, the young woman seated next me had not uttered a single word since I first began talking about aviation. Perhaps she was not interested in the subject, I thought, although to an enthusiast like me it seemed quite incredible.
“‘I am afraid I have been boring you with this shop talk,” I said, feeling as if I should apologize.
“‘Oh, not at all,’ she murmured, in very polite tones; ‘but would you mind telling me, what is aviation?'”–_M.A. Hitchcock_.
AVIATORS
Little drops in water–
Little drops on land–
Make the aviator,
Join the heavenly band.
–_Satire_.
“Are you an experienced aviator?”
“Well, sir, I have been at it six weeks and I am all here.”–_Life_.
BABIES
_See_ Children.
BACCALAUREATE SERMONS
PROUD FATHER–“Rick, my boy, if you live up to your oration you’ll be an honor to the family.”
VALEDICTORIAN-“I expect to do better than that, father. I am going to try to live up to the baccalaureate sermon.”
BACTERIA
There once were some learned M.D.’s, Who captured some germs of disease,
And infected a train
Which, without causing pain,
Allowed one to catch it with ease.
Two doctors met in the hall of the hospital.
“Well,” said the first, “what’s new this morning?”
“I’ve got a most curious case. Woman, cross-eyed; in fact, so cross-eyed that when she cries the tears run down her back.”
“What are you doing for her?”
“Just now,” was the answer, “we’re treating her for bacteria.”
BADGES
Mrs. Philpots came panting downstairs on her way to the temperance society meeting. She was a short, plump woman. “Addie, run up to my room and get my blue ribbon rosette, the temperance badge,” she directed her maid. “I have forgotten it. You will know it, Addie–blue ribbon and gold lettering.”
“Yas’m, I knows it right well.” Addie could not read, but she knew a blue ribbon with gold lettering when she saw it, and therefore had not trouble in finding it and fastening it properly on the dress of her mistress.
At the meeting Mrs. Philpots was too busy greeting her friends to note that they smiled when they shook hands with her. When she reached home supper was served, so she went directly to the dining-room, where the other members of the family were seated.
“Gracious me, Mother!” exclaimed her son: “that blue ribbon–you haven’t been wearing that at the temperance meeting?”
A loud laugh went up on all sides.
“Why, what is it, Harry?” asked the good woman, clutching at the ribbon in surprise.
“Why, Mother dear, didn’t you know that was the ribbon I won at the show?”
The gold lettering on the ribbon read:
INTERSTATE POULTRY SHOW
First Prize Bantam
BAGGAGE
An Aberdonian went to spend a few days in London with his son, who had done exceptionally well in the great metropolis. After their first greetings at King’s Cross Station, the young fellow remarked: “Feyther, you are not lookin’ weel. Is there anything the matter?” The old man replied, “Aye, lad, I have had quite an accident.” “What was that, feyther?” “Mon,” he said, “on this journey frae bonnie Scotland I lost my luggage.” “Dear, dear, that’s too bad; ‘oo did it happen?” “Aweel” replied the Aberdonian, “the cork cam’ oot.”
Johnnie Poe, one of the famous Princeton football family, and incidentally a great-nephew of Edgar Allan Poe, was a general in the army of Honduras in one of their recent wars. Finally, when things began to look black with peace and the American general discovered that his princely pay when translated into United States money was about sixty cents a day, he struck for the coast. There he found a United States warship and asked transportation home.
“Sure,” the commander told him. “We’ll be glad to have you. Come aboard whenever you like and bring your luggage.”
“Thanks,” said Poe warmly. “I’ll sure do that. I only have fifty-four pieces.”
“What!” exclaimed the commander. “What do you think I’m running? A freighter?”
“Oh, well, you needn’t get excited about it,” purred Poe. “My fifty-four pieces consist of one pair of socks and a pack of playing cards.”
BALDNESS
One mother who still considers Marcel waves as the most fashionable way of dressing the hair was at work on the job.
Her little eight-year-old girl was crouched on her father’s lap, watching her mother. Every once in a while the baby fingers would slide over the smooth and glossy pate which is Father’s.
“No waves for you, Father,” remarked the little one. “You’re all beach.”
“Were any of your boyish ambitions ever realized?” asked the sentimentalist.
“Yes,” replied the practical person. “When my mother used to cut my hair I often wished I might be bald-headed.”
Congressman Longworth is not gifted with much hair, his head being about as shiny as a billiard ball.
One day ex-president Taft, then Secretary of War, and Congressman Longworth sallied into a barbershop.
“Hair cut?” asked the barber of Longworth.
“Yes,” answered the Congressman.
“Oh, no, Nick,” commented the Secretary of War from the next chair, “you don’t want a hair cut; you want a shine.”
“O, Mother, why are the men in the front baldheaded?”
“They bought their tickets from scalpers, my child.”
The costumer came forward to attend to the nervous old beau who was mopping his bald and shining poll with a big silk handkerchief.
“And what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I want a little help in the way of a suggestion,” said the old fellow. “I intend going to the French Students’ masquerade ball to-night, and I want a distinctly original costume–something I may be sure no one else will wear. What would you suggest?”
The costumer looked him over attentively, bestowing special notice on the gleaming knob.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said then, thoughtfully: “why don’t you sugar your head and go as a pill?”–_Frank X. Finnegan_.
United States Senator Ollie James, of Kentucky, is bald.
“Does being bald bother you much?” a candid friend asked him once.
“Yes, a little,” answered the truthful James.
“I suppose you feel the cold severely in winter,” went on the friend.
“No; it’s not that so much,” said the Senator. “The main bother is when I’m washing myself–unless I keep my hat on I don’t know where my face stops.”
A near-sighted old lady at a dinner-party, one evening, had for her companion on the left a very bald-headed old gentleman. While talking to the gentleman at her right she dropped her napkin unconsciously. The bald-headed gentleman, in stooping to pick it up, touched her arm. The old lady turned around, shook her head, and very politely said: “No melon, thank you.”
BANKS AND BANKING
During a financial panic, a German farmer went to a bank for some money. He was told that the bank was not paying out money, but was using cashier’s checks. He could not understand this, and insisted on money.
The officers took him in hand, one after another, with little effect. At last the president tried his hand, and after long and minute explanation, some inkling of the situation seemed to be dawning on the farmer’s mind. Much encouraged, the president said: “You understand now how it is, don’t you, Mr.. Schmidt?”
“I t’ink I do,” admitted Mr. Schmidt. “It’s like dis, aindt it? Ven my baby vakes up at night and vants some milk, I gif him a milk ticket.”
She advanced to the paying teller’s window and, handing in a check for fifty dollars, stated that it was a birthday present from her husband and asked for payment. The teller informed her that she must first endorse it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said hesitatingly.
“Why, you see,” he explained, “you must write your name on the back, so that when we return the check to your husband, he will know we have paid you the money.”
“Oh, is that all?” she said, relieved…. One minute elapses.
Thus the “endorsement”: “Many thanks, dear, I’ve got the money. Your loving wife, Evelyn.”
FRIEND–“So you’re going to make it hot for that fellow who held up the bank, shot the cashier, and got away with the ten thousand?”
BANKER–“Yes, indeed. He was entirely too fresh. There’s a decent way to do that, you know. If he wanted to get the money, why didn’t he come into the bank and work his way up the way the rest of us did?”–_Puck_.
BAPTISM
A revival was being held at a small colored Baptist church in southern Georgia. At one of the meetings the evangelist, after an earnest but fruitless exhortation, requested all of the congregation who wanted their souls washed white as snow to stand up. One old darky remained sitting.
“Don’ yo’ want y’ soul washed w’ite as snow, Brudder Jones?”
“Mah soul done been washed w’ite as snow, pahson.”
“Whah wuz yo’ soul washed w’ite as snow, Brudder Jones?”
“Over yander to the Methodis’ chu’ch acrost de railroad.”
“Brudder Jones, yo’ soul wa’n’t washed–hit were dry-cleaned.”–_Life_.
BAPTISTS
An old colored man first joined the Episcopal Church, then the Methodist and next the Baptist, where he remained. Questioned as to the reason for his church travels he responded:
“Well, suh, hit’s this way: de ‘Piscopals is gemmen, suh, but I couldn’t keep up wid de answerin’ back in dey church. De Methodis’, dey always holdin’ inquiry meetin’, and I don’t like too much inquirin’ into. But de Baptis’, suh, dey jes’ dip and are done wid hit.”
A Methodist negro exhorter shouted: “Come up en jine de army ob de Lohd.” “I’se done jined,” replied one of the congregation. “Whar’d yoh jine?” asked the exhorter. “In de Baptis’ Chu’ch.” “Why, chile,” said the exhorter, “yoh ain’t in the army; yoh’s in de navy.”
BARGAINS
MANAGER (five-and-ten-cent store)–“What did the lady who just went out want?”
SHOPGIRL–“She inquired if we had a shoe department.”
“Hades,” said the lady who loves to shop, “would be a magnificent and endless bargain counter and I looking on without a cent.”
Newell Dwight Hillis, the now famous New York preacher and author, some years ago took charge of the First Presbyterian Church of Evanston, Illinois. Shortly after going there he required the services of a physician, and on the advice of one of his parishioners called in a doctor noted for his ability properly to emphasize a good story, but who attended church very rarely. He proved very satisfactory to the young preacher, but for some reason could not be induced to render a bill. Finally Dr. Hillis, becoming alarmed at the inroads the bill might make in his modest stipend, went to the physician and said, “See here, Doctor, I must know how much I owe you.”
After some urging, the physician replied: “Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, Hillis. They say you’re a pretty good preacher, and you seem to think I am a fair doctor, so I’ll make this bargain with you. I’ll do all I can to keep you out of heaven if you do all you can to keep me out of hell, and it won’t cost either of us a cent. Is it a go?”
“My wife and myself are trying to get up a list of club magazines. By taking three you get a discount.”
“How are you making out?”
“Well, we can get one that I don’t want, and one that she doesn’t want, and one that neither wants for $2.25.”
BASEBALL
A run in time saves the nine.
Knowin’ all ’bout baseball is jist ’bout as profitable as bein’ a good whittler.–_Abe Martin_.
“Plague take that girl!”
“My friend, that is the most beautiful girl in this town.”
“That may be. But she obstructs my view of second base.”
When Miss Cheney, one of the popular teachers in the Swarthmore schools, had to deal with a boy who played “hookey,” she failed to impress him with the evil of his ways.
“Don’t you know what becomes of little boys who stay away from school to play baseball?” asked Miss Cheney.
“Yessum,” replied the lad promptly. “Some of ’em gets to be good players and pitch in the big leagues.”
BATHS AND BATHING
The only unoccupied room in the hotel–one with a private bath in connection with it–was given to the stranger from Kansas. The next morning the clerk was approached by the guest when the latter was ready to check out.
“Well, did you have a good night’s rest?” the clerk asked.
“No, I didn’t,” replied the Kansan. “The room was all right, and the bed was pretty good, but I couldn’t sleep very much for I was afraid some one would want to take a bath, and the only door to it was through my room.”
RURAL CONSTABLE-“Now then, come out o’ that. Bathing’s not allowed ‘ere after 8 a.m.”
THE FACE IN THE WATER-“Excuse me, Sergeant, I’m not bathing; I’m only drowning.”–_Punch_.
A woman and her brother lived alone in the Scotch Highlands. She knitted gloves and garments to sell in the Lowland towns. Once when she was starting out to market her wares, her brother said he would go with her and take a dip in the ocean. While the woman was in the town selling her work, Sandy was sporting in the waves. When his sister came down to join him, however, he met her with a wry face. “Oh, Kirstie,” he said, “I’ve lost me weskit.” They hunted high and low, but finally as night settled down decided that the waves must have carried it out to sea.
The next year, at about the same season, the two again visited the town. And while Kirstie sold her wool in the town, Sandy splashed about in the brine. When Kirstie joined her brother she found him with a radiant face, and he cried out to her, “Oh, Kirstie, I’ve found me weskit. ‘Twas under me shirt.”
In one of the lesser Indian hill wars an English detachment took an Afghan prisoner. The Afghan was very dirty. Accordingly two privates were deputed to strip and wash him.
The privates dragged the man to a stream of running water, undressed him, plunged him in, and set upon him lustily with stiff brushes and large cakes of white soap.
After a long time one of the privates came back to make a report. He saluted his officer and said disconsolately:
“It’s no use, sir. It’s no use.”
“No use?” said the officer. “What do you mean? Haven’t you washed that Afghan yet?”
“It’s no use, sir,” the private repeated. “We’ve washed him for two hours, but it’s no use.”
“How do you mean it’s no use?” said the officer angrily.
“Why, sir,” said the private, “after rubbin’ him and scrubbin’ him till our arms ached I’ll be hanged if we didn’t come to another suit of clothes.”
BAZARS
Once upon a time a deacon who did not favor church bazars was going along a dark street when a footpad suddenly appeared, and, pointing his pistol, began to relieve his victim of his money.
The thief, however, apparently suffered some pangs of remorse. “It’s pretty rough to be gone through like this, ain’t it, sir?” he inquired.
“Oh, that’s all right, my man,” the “held-up” one answered cheerfully. “I was on my way to a bazar. You’re first, and there’s an end of it.”
BEARDS
There was an old man with a beard,
Who said, “It is just as I feared!– Two owls and a hen,
Four larks and a wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard.”
BEAUTY
If eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for being.
–Emerson.
A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
BEAUTY, PERSONAL
In good looks I am not a star.
There are others more lovely by far. But my face–I don’t mind it,
Because I’m behind it–
It’s the people in front that I jar.
“Shine yer boots, sir?”
“No,” snapped the man.
“Shine ’em so’s yer can see yer face in ’em?” urged the bootblack.
“No, I tell you!”
“Coward,” hissed the bootblack.
A farmer returning home late at night, found a man standing beside the house with a lighted lantern in his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked, savagely, suspecting he had caught a criminal. For answer came a chuckle, and–“It’s only mee, zur.”
The farmer recognized John, his shepherd.
“It’s you, John, is it? What on earth are you doing here this time o’ night?”
Another chuckle. “I’m a-coortin’ Ann, zur.”
“And so you’ve come courting with a lantern, you fool. Why I never took a lantern when I courted your mistress.”
“No, zur, you didn’t, zur,” John chuckled. “We can all zee you didn’t, zur.”
The senator and the major were walking up the avenue. The senator was more than middle-aged and considerably more than fat, and, dearly as the major loved him, he also loved his joke.
The senator turned with a pleased expression on his benign countenance and said, “Major, did you see that pretty girl smile at me?”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied his friend. “The first time I saw you I laughed out loud!”–_Harper’s Magazine_.
Pat, thinking to enliven the party, stated, with watch in hand: “I’ll presint a box of candy to the loidy that makes the homeliest face within the next three minutes.”
The time expired, Pat announced: “Ah, Mrs. McGuire, you get the prize.”
“But,” protested Mrs. McGuire, “go way wid ye! I wasn’t playin’ at all.”
ARTHUR–“They say dear, that people who live together get to look alike.”
KATE–“Then you must consider my refusal as final.”
In the negro car of a railway train in one of the gulf states a bridal couple were riding–a very light, rather good looking colored girl and a typical full blooded negro of possibly a reverted type, with receding forehead, protruding eyes, broad, flat nose very thick lips and almost no chin. He was positively and aggressively ugly.
They had been married just before boarding the train and, like a good many of their white brothers and sisters, were very much interested in each other, regardless of the amusement of their neighbors. After various “billings and cooings” the man sank down in the seat and, resting his head on the lady’s shoulder, looked soulfully up into her eyes.
She looked fondly down upon him and after a few minutes murmured gently, “Laws, honey, ain’t yo’ shamed to be so han’some?”
Little dabs of powder,
Little specks of paint,
Make my lady’s freckles
Look as if they ain’t.
–_Mary A. Fairchild_.
He kissed her on the cheek,
It seemed a harmless frolic;
He’s been laid up a week
They say, with painter’s colic.
–_The Christian Register_.
MOTHER (to inquisitive child)–“Stand aside. Don’t you see the gentleman wants to take the lady’s picture?”
“Why does he want to?”–_Life_.
One day, while walking with a friend in San Francisco, a professor and his companion became involved in an argument as to which was the handsomer man of the two. Not being able to arrive at a settlement of the question, they agreed, in a spirit of fun, to leave it to the decision of a Chinaman who was seen approaching them. The matter being laid before him, the Oriental considered long and carefully; then he announced in a tone of finality, “Both are worse.”
“What a homely woman!”
“Sir, that is my wife. I’ll have you understand it is a woman’s privilege to be homely.”
“Gee, then she abused the privilege.”
Beauty is worse than wine; it intoxicates both the holder and the beholder.–_Zimmermann_.
BEDS
A western politician tells the following story as illustrating the inconveniences attached to campaigning in certain sections of the country.
Upon his arrival at one of the small towns in South Dakota, where he was to make a speech the following day, he found that the so-called hotel was crowded to the doors. Not having telegraphed for accommodations, the politician discovered that he would have to make shift as best he could. Accordingly, he was obliged for that night to sleep on a wire cot which had only some blankets and a sheet on it. As the politician is an extremely fat man, he found his improvised bed anything but comfortable.
“How did you sleep?” asked a friend in the morning.
“Fairly well,” answered the fat man, “but I looked like a waffle when I got up.”
BEER
A man to whom illness was chronic,
When told that he needed a tonic,
Said, “O Doctor dear,
Won’t you please make it beer?”
“No, no,” said the Doc., “that’s Teutonic.”
BEES
TEACHER–“Tommy, do you know ‘How Doth the Little Busy Bee’?”
TOMMY–“No; I only know he doth it!”
BEETLES
Now doth the frisky June Bug
Bring forth his aeroplane,
And try to make a record,
And busticate his brain!
He bings against the mirror,
He bangs against the door,
He caroms on the ceiling,
And turtles on the floor!
He soars aloft, erratic,
He lands upon my neck,
And makes me creep and shiver,
A neurasthenic wreck!
–_Charles Irvin Junkin_.
BEGGING
THE “ANGEL” (about to give a beggar a dime)–“Poor man! And are you married?”
BEGGAR–“Pardon me, madam! D’ye think I’d be relyin’ on total strangers for support if I had a wife?”
MAN–“Is there any reason why I should give you five cents?”
BOY–“Well, if I had a nice high hat like yours I wouldn’t want it soaked with snowballs.”
MILLIONAIRE (to ragged beggar)–“You ask alms and do not even take your hat off. Is that the proper way to beg?”
BEGGAR–“Pardon me, sir. A policeman is looking at us from across the street. If I take my hat off he’ll arrest me for begging; as it is, he naturally takes us for old friends.”
Once, while Bishop Talbot, the giant “cowboy bishop,” was attending a meeting of church dignitaries in St. Paul, a tramp accosted a group of churchmen in the hotel porch and asked for aid.
“No,” one of them told him, “I’m afraid we can’t help you. But you see that big man over there?” pointing to Bishop Talbot.
“Well, he’s the youngest bishop of us all, and he’s a very generous man. You might try him.”
The tramp approached Bishop Talbot confidently. The others watched with interest. They saw a look of surprise come over the tramp’s face. The bishop was talking eagerly. The tramp looked troubled. And then, finally, they saw something pass from one hand to the other. The tramp tried to slink past the group without speaking, but one of them called to him:
“Well, did you get something from our young brother?”
The tramp grinned sheepishly. “No,” he admitted, “I gave him a dollar for his damned new cathedral at Laramie!”
To get thine ends, lay bashfulnesse aside; Who feares to aske, doth teach to be deny’d.
–_Herrick_.
Well, whiles I am a beggar I will rail And say, there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say, there is no vice but beggary.
–_Shakespeare_.
_See also_ Flattery; Millionaires.
BETTING
The officers’ mess was discussing rifle shooting.
“I’ll bet anyone here,” said one young lieutenant, “that I can fire twenty shots at two hundred yards and call each shot correctly without waiting for the marker. I’ll stake a box of cigars that I can.”
“Done!” cried a major.
The whole mess was on hand early next morning to see the experiment tried.
The lieutenant fired.
“Miss,” he calmly announced.
A second shot.
“Miss,” he repeated.
A third shot.
“Miss.”
“Here, there! Hold on!” protested the major. “What are you trying to do? You’re not shooting for the target at all.”
“Of course not,” admitted the lieutenant. “I’m firing for those cigars.” And he got them.
Two old cronies went into a drug store in the downtown part of New York City, and, addressing the proprietor by his first name, one of them said:
“Dr. Charley, we have made a bet of the ice-cream sodas. We will have them now and when the bet is decided the loser will drop in and pay for them.”
As the two old fellows were departing after enjoying their temperance beverage, the druggist asked them what the wager was.
“Well,” said one of them, “our friend George bets that when the tower of the Singer Building falls, it will topple over toward the North River, and I bet that it won’t.”
BIBLE INTERPRETATION
“Miss Jane, did Moses have the same after-dinner complaint my papa’s got?” asked Percy of his governess.
“Gracious me, Percy! Whatever do you mean, my dear?”
“Well, it says here that the Lord gave Moses two tablets.”
“Mr. Preacher,” said a white man to a colored minister who was addressing his congregation, “you are talking about Cain, and you say he got married in the land of Nod, after he killed Abel. But the Bible mentions only Adam and Eve as being on earth at that time. Who, then, did Cain marry?”
The colored preacher snorted with unfeigned contempt. “Huh!” he said, “you hear dat, brederen an’ sisters? You hear dat fool question I am axed? Cain, he went to de land o’ Nod just as de Good Book tells us, an’ in de land o’ Nod Cain gits so lazy an’ so shif’less dat he up an’ marries a gal o’ one o’ dem no’ count pore white trash families dat de inspired apostle didn’t consider fittin’ to mention in de Holy Word.”
BIGAMY
There once was an old man of Lyme.
Who married three wives at a time: When asked, “Why a third?”
He replied, “One’s absurd!
And bigamy, sir, is a crime.”
BILLS
The proverb, “Where there’s a will there’s a way” is now revised to “When there’s a bill we’re away.”
YOUNG DOCTOR–“Why do you always ask your patients what they have for dinner?”
OLD DOCTOR–“It’s a most important question, for according to their menus I make out my bills.”
Farmer Gray kept summer boarders. One of these, a schoolteacher, hired him to drive her to the various points of interest around the country. He pointed out this one and that, at the same time giving such items of information as he possessed.
The school-teacher, pursing her lips, remarked, “It will not be necessary for you to talk.”
When her bill was presented, there was a five-dollar charge marked “Extra.”
“What is this?” she asked, pointing to the item.
“That,” replied the farmer, “is for sass. I don’t often take it, but when I do I charge for it.”–_E. Egbert_.
PATIENT (_angrily_)–“The size of your bill makes my blood boil.”
DOCTOR–“Then that will be $20 more for sterilizing your system.”
At the bedside of a patient who was a noted humorist, five doctors were in consultation as to the best means of producing a perspiration.
The sick man overheard the discussion, and, after listening for a few moments, he turned his head toward the group and whispered with a dry chuckle:
“Just send in your bills, gentlemen; that will bring it on at once.”
“Thank Heaven, those bills are got rid of,” said Bilkins, fervently, as he tore up a bundle of statements of account dated October 1st.
“All paid, eh?” said Mrs. Bilkins.
“Oh, no,” said Bilkins. “The duplicates dated November 1st have come in and I don’t have to keep these any longer.”
BIRTHDAYS
When a man has a birthday he takes a day off, but when a woman has a birthday she takes a year off.
BLUFFING
Francis Wilson, the comedian, says that many years ago when he was a member of a company playing “She Stoops to Conquer,” a man without any money, wishing to see the show, stepped up to the box-office in a small town and said:
“Pass me in, please.”
The box-office man gave a loud, harsh laugh.
“Pass you in? What for?” he asked.
The applicant drew himself up and answered haughtily:
“What for? Why, because I am Oliver Goldsmith, author of the play.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the box-office man, as he hurriedly wrote out an order for a box.
BLUNDERS
An early morning customer in an optician’s shop was a young woman with a determined air. She addressed the first salesman she saw. “I want to look at a pair of eyeglasses, sir, of extra magnifying power.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the salesman; “something very strong?”
“Yes, sir. While visiting in the country I made a very painful blunder which I never want to repeat.”
“Indeed! Mistook a stranger for an acquaintance?”
“No, not exactly that; I mistook a bumblebee for a black-berry.”
The ship doctor of an English liner notified the death watch steward, an Irishman, that a man had died in stateroom 45. The usual instructions to bury the body were given. Some hours later the doctor peeked into the room and found that the body was still there. He called the Irishman’s attention to the matter and the latter replied:
“I thought you said room 46. I wint to that room and noticed wan of thim in a bunk. ‘Are ye dead?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘but I’m pretty near dead.’
“So I buried him.”
Telephone girls sometimes glory in their mistakes if there is a joke in consequence. The story is told by a telephone operator in one of the Boston exchanges about a man who asked her for the number of a local theater.
He got the wrong number and, without asking to whom he was talking, he said, “Can I get a box for two to-night?”
A startled voice answered him at the other end of the line, “We don’t have boxes for two.”
“Isn’t this the —- Theater?” he called crossly.
“Why, no,” was the answer, “this is an undertaking shop.”
He canceled his order for a “box for two.”
A good Samaritan, passing an apartment house in the small hours of the morning, noticed a man leaning limply against the doorway.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, “Drunk?”
“Yep.”
“Do you live in this house?”
“Yep.”
“Do you want me to help you upstairs?”
“Yep.”
With much difficulty he half dragged, half carried the drooping figure up the stairway to the second floor.
“What floor do you live on?” he asked. “Is this it?”
“Yep.”
Rather than face an irate wife who might, perhaps, take him for a companion more at fault than her spouse, he opened the first door he came to and pushed the limp figure in.
The good Samaritan groped his way downstairs again. As he was passing through the vestibule he was able to make out the dim outlines of another man, apparently in worse condition than the first one.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you drunk, too?”
“Yep,” was the feeble reply.
“Do you live in this house, too?”
“Yep.”
“Shall I help you upstairs?”
“Yep.”
The good Samaritan pushed, pulled, and carried him to the second floor, where this man also said he lived. He opened the same door and pushed him in.
As he reached the front door he discerned the shadow of a third man, evidently worse off than either of the other two. He was about to approach him when the object of his solicitude lurched out into the street and threw himself into the arms of a passing policeman.
“For Heaven’s sake, off’cer,” he gasped, “protect me from that man. He’s done nothin’ all night long but carry me upstairs ‘n throw me down th’ elevator shaf.”
There was a young man from the city, Who met what he thought was a kitty;
He gave it a pat,
And said, “Nice little cat!”
And they buried his clothes out of pity.
BOASTING
Maybe the man who boasts that he doesn’t owe a dollar in the world couldn’t if he tried.
“What sort of chap is he?”
“Well, after a beggar has touched him for a dime he’ll tell you he ‘gave a little dinner to an acquaintance of his.'”–_R.R. Kirk_.
WILLIE–“All the stores closed on the day my uncle died.”
TOMMY–“That’s nothing. All the banks closed for three weeks the day after my pa left town.”–_Puck_.
Two men were boasting about their rich kin. Said one:
“My father has a big farm in Connecticut. It is so big that when he goes to the barn on Monday morning to milk the cows he kisses us all good-by, and he doesn’t get back till the following Saturday.”
“Why does it take him so long?” the other man asked.
“Because the barn is so far away from the house.”
“Well, that may be a pretty big farm, but compared to my father’s farm in Pennsylvania your father’s farm ain’t no bigger than a city lot!”
“Why, how big is your father’s farm?”
“Well, it’s so big that my father sends young married couples out to the barn to milk the cows, and the milk is brought back by their grandchildren.”
BONANZAS
A certain Congressman had disastrous experience in goldmine speculations. One day a number of colleagues were discussing the subject of his speculation, when one of them said to this Western member:
“Old chap, as an expert, give us a definition of the term, ‘bonanza.'”
“A ‘bonanza,'” replied the Western man with emphasis, “is a hole in the ground owned by a champion liar!”
BOOKKEEPING
Tommy, fourteen years old, arrived home for the holidays, and at his father’s request produced his account book, duly kept at school. Among the items “S. P. G.” figured largely and frequently. “Darling boy,” fondly exclaimed his doting mamma: “see how good he is–always giving to the missionaries.” But Tommy’s sister knew him better than even his mother did, and took the first opportunity of privately inquiring what those mystic letters stood for. Nor was she surprised ultimately to find that they represented, not the venerable Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, but “Sundries, Probably Grub.”
BOOKS AND READING
LADY PRESIDENT–“What book has helped you most?”
NEW MEMBER–“My husband’s check-book.”–_Martha Young_.
“You may send me up the complete works of Shakespeare, Goethe and Emerson–also something to read.”
There are three classes of bookbuyers: Collectors, women and readers.
The owner of a large library solemnly warned a friend against the practice of lending books. To punctuate his advice he showed his friend the well-stocked shelves. “There!” said he. “Every one of those books was lent me.”
In science, read, by preference, the newest works; in literature, the oldest.–_Bulwer-Lytton_.
Learning hath gained most by those books by which the Printers have lost.–_Fuller_.
Books should to one of these four ends conduce, For wisdom, piety, delight, or use.
–_Sir John Denham_.
A darky meeting another coming from the library with a book accosted him as follows:
“What book you done got there, Rastus?”
“‘Last Days of Pompeii.'”
“Last days of Pompey? Is Pompey dead? I never heard about it. Now what did Pompey die of?”
“I don’t ‘xactly know, but it must hab been some kind of ‘ruption.”
“I don’t know what to give Lizzie for a Christmas present,” one chorus girl is reported to have said to her mate while discussing the gift to be made to a third.
“Give her a book,” suggested the other.
And the first one replied meditatively, “No, she’s got a book.”–_Literary Digest_.
BOOKSELLERS AND BOOKSELLING
A bookseller reports these mistakes of customers in sending orders:
AS ORDERED CORRECT TITLE
_Lame as a Roble_ _Les Miserables_ _God’s Image in Mud_ _God’s Image in Man_ _Pair of Saucers_ _Paracelsus_
_Pierre and His Poodle_ _Pierre and His People_
When a customer in a Boston department store asked a clerk for Hichens’s _Bella Donna_, the reply was, “Drug counter, third aisle over.”
It was a few days before Christmas in one of New York’s large book-stores.
CLERK–“What is it, please?”
CUSTOMER–“I would like Ibsen’s _A Doll’s House_.”
CLERK–“To cut out?”
BOOKWORMS
“A book-worm,” said papa, “is a person who would rather read than eat, or it is a worm that would rather eat than read.”
BOOMERANGS
_See_ Repartee; Retaliation.
BORES
“What kind of a looking man is that chap Gabbleton you just mentioned? I don’t believe I have met him.”
“Well, if you see two men off in a corner anywhere and one of them looks bored to death, the other is Gabbleton.”–_Puck_.
A man who was a well known killjoy was described as a great athlete. He could throw a wet blanket two hundred yards in any gathering.
_See_ also Conversation; Husbands; Preaching; Public speakers; Reformers.
BORROWERS
A well-known but broken-down Detroit newspaper man, who had been a power in his day, approached an old friend the other day in the Pontchartrain Hotel and said:
“What do you think? I have just received the prize insult of my life. A paper down in Muncie, Ind., offered me a job.”
“Do you call that an insult?”
“Not the job, but the salary. They offered me twelve dollars a week.”
“Well,” said the friend, “twelve dollars a week is better than nothing.”
“Twelve a week–thunder!” exclaimed the old scribe. “I can borrow more than that right here in Detroit.”–_Detroit Free Press_.
One winter morning Henry Clay, finding himself in need of money, went to the Riggs Bank and asked for the loan of $250 on his personal note. He was told that while his credit was perfectly good, it was the inflexible rule of the bank to require an indorser. The great statesman hunted up Daniel Webster and asked him to indorse the note.
“With pleasure,” said Webster. “But I need some money myself. Why not make your note for five hundred, and you and I will split it?”
This they did. And to-day the note is in the Riggs Bank–unpaid.
BOSSES
The insurance agent climbed the steps and rang the bell.
“Whom do you wish to see?” asked the careworn person who came to the door.
“I want to see the boss of the house,” replied the insurance agent. “Are you the boss?”
“No,” meekly returned the man who came to the door; “I’m only the husband of the boss. Step in, I’ll call the boss.”
The insurance agent took a seat in the hall, and in a short time a tall dignified woman appeared.
“So you want to see the boss?” repeated the woman. “Well, just step into the kitchen. This way, please. Bridget, this gentleman desires to see you.”
“Me th’ boss!” exclaimed Bridget, when the insurance agent asked her the question. “Indade Oi’m not! Sure here comes th’ boss now.”
She pointed to a small boy of ten years who was coming toward the house.
“Tell me,” pleaded the insurance agent, when the lad came into the kitchen, “are you the boss of the house?”
“Want to see the boss?” asked the boy. “Well, you just come with me.”
Wearily the insurance agent climbed up the stairs. He was ushered into a room on the second floor and guided to the crib of a sleeping baby.
“There!” exclaimed the boy, “that’s the real boss of this house.”
BOSTON
A tourist from the east, visiting an old prospector in his lonely cabin in the hills, commented: “And yet you seem so cheerful and happy.” “Yes,” replied the one of the pick and shovel. “I spent a week in Boston once, and no matter what happens to me now, it seems good luck in comparison.”
A little Boston girl with exquisitely long golden curls and quite an angelic appearance in general, came in from an afternoon walk with her nurse and said to her mother, “Oh, Mamma, a strange woman on the street said to me, ‘My, but ain’t you got beautiful hair!'”
The mother smiled, for the compliment was well merited, but she gasped as the child innocently continued her account:
“I said to her, ‘I am very glad to have you like my hair, but I am sorry to hear you use the word “ain’t”!'”–_E. R. Bickford_.
NAN–“That young man from Boston is an interesting talker, so far as you can understand what he says; but what a queer dialect he uses.”
FAN–“That isn’t dialect; it’s vocabulary. Can’t you tell the difference?”
A Bostonian died, and when he arrived at St. Peter’s gate he was asked the usual questions:
“What is your name, and where are you from?”
The answer was, “Mr. So-and-So, from Boston.”
“You may come in,” said Peter, “but I know you won’t like it.”
There was a young lady from Boston,
A two-horned dilemma was tossed on, As to which was the best,
To be rich in the west
Or poor and peculiar in Boston.
BOXING
John L. Sullivan was asked why he had never taken to giving boxing lessons.
“Well, son, I tried it once,” replied Mr. Sullivan. “A husky young man took one lesson from me and went home a little the worse for wear. When he came around for his second lesson he said: ‘Mr Sullivan, it was my idea to learn enough about boxing from you to be able to lick a certain