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Title: Humorous Hits and How to Hold an Audience
       A Collection of Short Selections, Stories and Sketches for All Occasions

Author: Grenville Kleiser

Release Date: October 25, 2014 [EBook #47194]

Language: English

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HUMOROUS HITS
AND
How to Hold an Audience

A COLLECTION OF SHORT SELECTIONS,
STORIES AND SKETCHES
FOR ALL OCCASIONS

By

GRENVILLE KLEISER

Author of "How to Speak in Public"

THIRTEENTH EDITION

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON

Copyright 1908 by
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
Published March, 1908

INTRODUCTORY

In preparing this volume the author has been guided by his own platform experience extending over twelve years. During that time he has given hundreds of public recitals before audiences of almost every description, and in all parts of the country. It may not be considered presumptuous, therefore, for him to offer some practical suggestions on the art of entertaining and holding an audience, and to indicate certain selections which he has found have in themselves the elements of success.

The "encore fiend," as he is sometimes called, is so ubiquitous and insistent that no speaker or reader can afford to ignore him, and, indeed, must prepare for him in advance. To find material that will satisfy him in one or in a dozen of the ordinary books of selections is an almost impossible task. It is only too obvious that many compilations of the kind are put together by persons who have had little or no practical platform experience. In an attempt to remedy this defect this volume has been prepared.

It is believed that the book will be valuable not only to the amateur and the professional reader, speaker, elocutionist, and entertainer, but also to the after-dinner and impromptu speaker, the politician who wants to make a "hit," the business man who wishes to tell a good story and tell it effectively, the school-teacher in arranging her "Friday Afternoon" programs, as well as for reading aloud in the family circle, and for many other occasions.

Providing, as this work does, helpful hints on how to hold an audience, it is hoped that the additional suggestions offered regarding the use of the voice and its modulation, the art of pausing, the development of feeling and energy, the use of gesture and action, the cultivation of the imagination, the committing of selections to memory, and the standing before an audience, while not as elaborate and detailed as found in a regular manual of elocution, will be of practical benefit to those who can not conveniently command the services of a personal instructor.

The author has been greatly assisted in this undertaking not only by the kind permission of publishers and authors to use their copyrighted work, but also by the hearty cooperation of many distinguished platform speakers and readers who have generously contributed successful selections not hitherto published.

The author gratefully acknowledges the special permission granted him by the publishers to print the following copyright selections: "Keep A-goin'!" the Bobbs-Merrill Company, "A Modern Romance," the Publishers of The Smart Set; "The Fool's Prayer," Houghton, Mifflin & Company; "Mammy's Li'l Boy," and "'Späcially Jim," the Century Company; "Counting One Hundred," the Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company; "At Five O'clock Tea," the Publishers of Lippincott's Magazine.

Grenville Kleiser.

New York City, February, 1908.

CONTENTS

PART I
HOW TO HOLD AN AUDIENCE

To hold the interest of an audience and to successfully entertain it—whether from public platform, in fraternal organization, by after-dinner speech, or in the home circle—is a worthy accomplishment. Moreover, the memorizing of selections and rendering them before an audience is one of the best preparations for the larger and more important work of public speaking. Many of our most successful after-dinner speakers depend almost entirely upon their ability to tell a good story.

The art of reciting and story-telling has become so popular in recent years that a wide-spread demand has arisen for books of selections and suggestions for rendering them. Material suitable for encores has been particularly difficult to find. It is thought, therefore, that the present volume, containing as it does a great variety of short numbers, will meet with approval.

There is, perhaps, no talent that is more entertaining and more instructive than that of reciting aloud specimens of prose and poetry, both humorous and serious, from our best writers. Channing says:

"Is there not an amusement, having an affinity with the drama, which might be usefully introduced among us? I mean, Recitation.

"A work of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and powers of elocution, is a very pure and high gratification.

"Were this art cultivated and encouraged, great numbers, now insensible to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked up to their excellence and power.

"It is not easy to conceive of a more effectual way of spreading a refined taste through a community. The drama undoubtedly appeals more strongly to the passions than recitation; but the latter brings out the meaning of the author more. Shakespeare, worthily recited, would be better understood than on the stage.

"Recitation, sufficiently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit, as well as of pathos, beauty, and sublimity, is adapted to our present intellectual progress."

To recite well, and to be able to hold an audience, one should be trained in the proper use of the voice and body in expression. This requires painstaking study and preparation. It is a mistake to suppose that much can be safely left to impulse and the inspiration of the occasion. With all great artists everything is premeditated, studied, and rehearsed beforehand.

Salvini, the great Italian tragedian, said to the pupils in his art: "Above all, study,—study,—STUDY. All the genius in the world will not help you along with any art, unless you become a hard student. It has taken me years to master a single part."

THE VOICE

The voice can be rapidly and even wonderfully developed by practising for a few minutes daily exercises prescribed in any good manual of elocution.[1] Learn to speak in the natural voice. If it is high-pitched, nasal, thin, or unmusical, these defects can be overcome by patient and judicious practise. Do not assume an artificial voice, except in impersonation. Remember that intelligent audiences demand intelligent expression, and will not tolerate the ranting, bombast, and unnatural style of declamation of former days.

Many people speak with half-shut teeth and mouth. Open the mouth and throat freely; liberate all the muscles around the vocal apparatus. Aim to speak with ease, and endeavor to improve the voice in depth, purity, roundness, and flexibility. Daily conversation offers the best opportunity for this practise.

A writer recently said: "Only a very, very few of us Americans speak English as the English do. We have our own 'accent,' as it is called. We are a nervous, eager, strident people. We know it, tho we do not relish having foreigners tell us about it. We speak not mellowly, not with lax tongues and palates, but sharply, shrilly, with hardened mouth and with tones forced back upon the palate. We strangulate two-thirds of our vowels and swallow half the other third. Pure, round, sonorous tones are almost never heard in our daily speech."

Speak from the abdomen. All the effort, all the motive power, should come from the waist and abdominal muscles. These are made to stand the strain that is so often incorrectly put upon the muscles of the throat. Aim at a forward tone; that is, send your voice out to some distant object, imaginary or otherwise, without unduly elevating the pitch. The voice should strike against the hard palate, the hard bony arch just above the upper teeth. Most of the practising should be done on the low pitches.

If there is any serious physical defect of the throat or nose, consult a reliable physician.

Do not overtax the voice. Three periods of ten minutes each are better than an hour's practise at one time. Stop at the first sign of weariness. Do not practise within an hour after eating. Avoid the habitual use of lozenges. There is nothing better for the throat than a gargle of salt and water, used night and morning. Dash cold water on the outside of the throat and rub it vigorously with a coarse towel.

THE BREATH

The proper management of the breath is an important part of good speaking. Some teachers say the air should be inhaled on all occasions exclusively through the nose. This is practically impossible while in the act of speaking. The aim should be to speak on full lungs as much as possible; therefore a breath must be taken at every opportunity. This is done during the pauses, but often the time is so short that the speaker will find it necessary to use both mouth and nose to get a full supply of air. The breathing should be inaudible.

Practise deep breathing until it becomes an unconscious habit. In taking in the breath the abdomen and chest both expand, and in giving out the breath the abdomen and chest both contract. By this method of respiration the abdomen is used as a kind of "bellows," and the strain is taken entirely off the throat. The breathing should be done without noticeable effort and without raising the shoulders. Whenever possible the breathing should be long and deep. While speaking, endeavor to hold back in the lungs, or reservoir, the supply of air, "feeding" it very gradually to the vocal cords in just the quantity required for a given tone. Reciting aloud, when properly done, is a healthful exercise, and the voice should grow and improve through use; but to speak on half-filled lungs, or from the throat, is distressing and often injurious.

Keep your shoulders well thrown back, head erect, chin level, arms loosely at the sides, and in walking throw the leg out from the hip with easy, confident movement. The weight of the body should be on the ball of the foot, altho the whole foot touches the floor. The breathing should be deep, smooth, and deliberate.

When the breath is not being used in speech, breathe exclusively through the nose. This is particularly desirable during the hours of sleep. As someone has said, if you awake at night and find your mouth open, get up and shut it. A well-known English authority on elocution says that as a golden rule for the preservation of the health, he considers the habit of breathing through the nose invaluable if not imperative. Air, which is the breath of life, has always floating in it also the seeds of death. The nose is a filter and deodorizer, in passing through which the air is cleansed and sent pure into the lungs. The nose warms the air as well as purifies it, and thus prevents it from being breathed in that raw, damp state which is so injurious to those whose lungs are delicate.

Speak immediately upon opening your mouth. Try to turn into pure-toned voice every particle of breath you give out. Replenish the lungs every time you pause. Light gymnastics, brisk walking, running, horseback riding, and other exercise will improve your breathing capacity.

MODULATION

Modulation simply means change of voice. These changes, however, must be intelligent and appropriate to the thought. Monotony—speaking in one tone—must be avoided. The speaker should have the ability to raise or lower the pitch of his voice at will, as well as to vary it in force, intensity, inflection, etc.

Do not confuse "pitch" with "force." Pitch refers to the key of the speaking voice, while force relates to the loudness of the voice. The movement or rate of speaking should be varied to suit the particular thought. It would be ridiculous to describe a horse-race in the slow, measured tones of a funeral procession.

Most of your speaking should be done in the middle and lower registers; but the higher pitches, altho not so often required, must be trained so as to be ready for use. These higher tones are frequently thin and unmusical, but they can be made full and firm through practise.

It is not necessary to study many rules for inflection. The speaker should know in a general way that when the sense is suspended the voice follows this tendency and runs up, and when the sense is completed the voice runs down. In other words, the voice should simply be in agreement with the tendency of the thought, whether it opens up or closes down. The lengths of inflection vary according to the thought and the required emphasis.

For most occasions the speaking should be clear-cut and deliberate. The larger the room or hall, the slower should be the speech, to give the vocal vibrations time to travel. Dwelling on words too long, drawling, or over precision in articulation, is tedious to an audience. The other extreme, undue haste, suggests lack of self-control, and is fatal to successful effort. Of course this does not apply to special selections demanding rapid speech.

There are numerous words in English that represent or at least suggest their meaning in their sound. One who aims to read or recite well should study these effects so as to use them skilfully and with judgment.

The most complete and concise treatment on the subject of expression is perhaps that given in Hamlet's advice to the players when he says:

"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you—trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and as I may say whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows, and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it....

"Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, tho it make the unskilful laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theater of others. O! there be players, that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably."

PAUSING

Words naturally divide themselves into groups according to their meaning. Grammatical pauses indicate the construction of language, while rhetorical pauses mark more particularly the natural divisions in the sense. To jumble words together, or to rattle them off in "rapid-fire" style, is not an entertaining performance. Proper pausing secures economy of the listener's attention, and is as desirable in spoken as in written language.

Pauses should vary in frequency and duration. It should be remembered that words are only symbols, and that the speaker should concern himself seriously about the thought which these symbols represent. The concept behind the sign is the important thing. The fine art of pausing can be acquired only after long and faithful study. Then it may become an unconscious habit. An old rime on this subject is worth repeating:

FEELING AND ENERGY

Before you can properly feel what you say you must understand it. Artificial and imitative methods do not produce enduring results. In studying a passage or selection for recitation, the imagination must be kindled, the feelings stimulated, and the mind trained to concentrate upon the thought until it is experienced. This subjective work should always precede the attempt at objective expression. Everything must first be conceived, pictured, and experienced in the mind. When this is done with intelligence, sincerity, and earnestness, there should be little difficulty in giving true and adequate expression to thought.

In all speaking that is worth the while there must be energy, force, and life. The speaker should be wide-awake, alert, palpitating. A speaker—and this applies to the reciter and elocutionist—should be, as someone has said, "an animal galvanic battery on two legs."[2] He must know what he is about. He must be in east.

Make a distinction between loudness and intensity. Often the best effects are produced by suggesting power in reserve rather than giving the fullest outward expression. Intensity in reading or reciting is secured chiefly through concentration and a thorough grasp of the thought. Endeavor to put yourself into your voice. Do not forget that deep, concentrated feeling is never loud. Avoid shouting, ranting, and "tearing a passion to tatters." Go to nature for models. Ask what one would do in real life in uttering the thoughts under consideration.

The emotions must be brought under control by frequent practise. Joy, sorrow, anger, fear, surprize, terror, and other feelings are as colors to the artist and must be made ready for instant use. To quote Richard Mansfield:

"When you are enacting a part, think of your voice as a color, and, as you paint your picture (the character you are painting, the scene you are portraying), mix your colors. You have on your palate a white voice, la voix blanche; a heavenly, ethereal or blue voice, the voice of prayer; a disagreeable, jealous, or yellow voice; a steel-gray voice, for quiet sarcasm; a brown voice of hopelessness; a lurid, red voice of hot rage; a deep, thunderous voice of black; a cheery voice, the color of the green sea that a brisk breeze is crisping; and then there is a pretty little pink voice, and shades of violet—but the subject is endless."

GESTURE AND ACTION

No better advice can be given upon this subject than to "Suit the action to the word; the word to the action." Unless a gesture in some way helps in the expression and understanding of a thought, it should be omitted. Gesture is not a mere ornament, but a natural and necessary part of true expression. The arms and hands should be trained to perform their work gracefully, promptly, and effectively. If too many gestures are used they lose their force and meaning. Furthermore, too many gestures confuse and annoy the auditor.

Gesture should be practised, preferably before a looking-glass, so thoroughly beforehand as to make it an unconscious act when the speaker comes before his audience.

The correct standing position is to have one foot slightly in advance of the other. The taller the person, the broader should be the base or width between the feet. The body should be erect but not rigid. In repose the arms should drop naturally at the sides. Except in the act of gesticulating do not try to put the hands anywhere, and above all, if a man, not in the pockets.

IMPERSONATION

The aim here should be to lose one's self in the part. To subordinate one's tones, gestures, and manners, and to live the character for the time being, requires no mean ability. Impersonation calls for imagination, insight, concentration, and adaptability. The impersonator must be all at it, and at it all, during the whole time he is impersonating the character.

"To fathom the depths of character," said Macready, the distinguished English actor, "to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest quiverings of emotion, to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under words, and thus possess one's self of the actual mind of the individual man, is the highest reach of the player's art, and is an achievement that I have discerned but in few. Kean—when under the impulse of his genius he seemed to clutch the whole idea of the man—was an extraordinary instance among those possessing the faculty of impersonation."

Where dialect is used it should be closely studied from life. Stage representations of foreign character are not always trustworthy models.

ARTICULATION AND PRONUNCIATION

Articulate and pronounce correctly and distinctly without being pedantic. The organs of articulation—teeth, tongue, lips, and palate—should be trained to rapidly and accurately repeat various sets of elements, until any combination of sounds, no matter how difficult, can be uttered with facility, accuracy, and precision.

A standard dictionary should be consulted whenever there is a doubt either about the meaning or the pronunciation of a word. As to the standard of pronunciation, the speaker should consider at least these three things: (1) authority, (2) custom, and (3) personal taste.

There are many words commonly mispronounced, but only a few can be referred to here: Do not say Toos-day or Chews-day for Tuesday; ur-ride for ride; i-ron for i-urn; wus for was; thun for than; subjict for subject; awf-fiss for off-fiss; fig-ger for figure; to-wards for tords; dook for duke; ketch for catch; day-po for de-po; ab'domen for abdo'men; advertise'ment for adver'tisement; ly'ceum for lyce'um; oc'cult for occult'; often for of'n; sence for since; sujgest for suggest; wownd for woond; wether for whether; sen'ile for se'nile; ad'dress for address'; il'lustrate for illus'trate; ker-own for crown; winder for window; sor for saw; wickud for wicked; ingine for engine; ontil for until.

Words should drop from the mouth like newly-made coins from the mint. Practising on words of several syllables is helpful. Some such as these will serve as examples: "particularly," "unconstitutional," "incompatibility," "unnecessarily," "voluminous," "overwhelmingly," "sesquipedalian," etc.

IMAGINATION

The ability to make vivid mental pictures of what one recites is of great value to both reader and hearer. Everyone has this faculty to some degree, but few develop it as it should be developed for use in speaking. The clearer the mental picture the speaker has in mind the more vivid will it be to the hearer. Practise making mental images with pictures that appeal strongly to you. Try to see everything in detail. If at first the impressions are obscure, persevere in your practise and substantial results will surely come. Dr. Silas Neff gives a splendid illustration of this kind that can be effectively used for practise:

"A woodman once lived with his family near a shallow stream which flowed between high banks and in the middle of which, opposite his house, was an island. Half a mile up the stream was a dam which supplied water for a saw-mill a hundred yards below. One morning after the father had gone to the mill to work, leaving his wife in the back yard washing some little garments, their two little boys clambered down the bank and waded through the water to the island where they had spent many happy hours in play. About the middle of the forenoon, from some unknown cause, the wall of the dam suddenly gave way, the water plunging through and nearly filling the banks of the stream. The father in the mill heard the noise and looking out saw what had happened. Immediately thinking of his boys he dashed out, hat and coat off, on an awful race down the creek to save their lives. The water after leaving the dam flowed rather slowly for some time and he was soon quite a distance ahead, but he knew that unless he gained very rapidly here, the descent being much greater farther down, the water would overtake his boys before he could reach them. His wife suddenly looked up as the agonizing cries of her husband fell upon her ear. She rushed to the front yard. In quick succession she distinguished the words, 'Get the boys!' The father was a few hundred yards from his home. The water had reached the rapid part of the stream but some distance behind the man. The wife on hearing the words, tho not knowing what was wrong, jumped down the bank and ran through the water, shrieking to the boys. Just as she reached the island they ran to her and, without uttering a word, she took one under each arm and started back as wildly as she came. When half way over she saw her husband dashing out from the edge of the woods and the water not twenty feet behind him. They met at the top of the bank, the father grasped wife and children in his arms and the water passed harmlessly by."[3]

HOW TO MEMORIZE A SELECTION

Do not learn a selection simply by rote—that is, by repeating it parrot-like over and over again—but fix it in the mind by a careful and detailed analysis of the thought. As you practise aloud, train your eye to take in as many words as possible, then look away from the book as you recite them aloud. This will give the memory immediate practise and will tend to make it self-reliant.

Having chosen a selection, read it over first in a general way to secure an impression of it in its entirety. Then read it a second time, giving particular attention to each part. Consult a dictionary for the correct meaning and pronunciation of every word about which you are in doubt. Next underline the emphatic words—those which you think best express the most important thoughts. Underscoring one line for emphatic words and two lines for the most emphatic will do for this purpose. Now indicate the various pauses, both grammatical and rhetorical, by drawing short perpendicular lines between the words where they occur. In a general way use one line for a short pause, two lines for a medium pause, and three lines for a long pause. On the margin of the selection you may make other notes, such as the dominant feeling, transitions, changes of rate, force and pitch, special effects, gestures, facial expression, etc.

There is, of course, nothing arbitrary about this work of analysis. Its purpose is to make the student think, to analyze, to be painstaking. The following annotated selection should be carefully considered. Words on which chief emphasis is to be placed are printed in small capitals; those on which less emphasis is to be placed, in italics. It is not intended to be mechanical, but suggestive. After a few selections have been analyzed in this way, pausing and emphasis, and many other elements of expression, will largely take care of themselves.

BEFORE THE AUDIENCE

As you present yourself to your audience, bow slightly and graciously from the waist. Be courteous, but not servile. Avoid haste and familiarity. Be punctilious in dress and deportment, and be prompt in keeping your appointments.

Be sure you have everything ready in advance. If you have to use any properties, such as a table, chair, eye-glass, books, reading-stand, coat, hat, gloves, letters, etc., see that everything is provided and in its place before the time set for your appearance.

Success often depends upon the judicious choice of selections for the occasion. What will be acceptable to one audience may not please another. The sentiment and the length of selections depend upon the time and place where they are to be given. When an audience expects to be entertained with humorous rec
itations, to announce in a sepulchral voice that you will give them a poem of your own composition, entitled "The Three Corpses," of melancholy character, is likely to send a chill of disappointment through them.

Never keep your audience waiting. If an encore is demanded, return and bow, or if the demand is insistent,
give another number, preferably a short one. Do not be too eager to give encores; if the applause is not insistent, a bow will suffice.

PART II
HUMOROUS HITS

THE TRAIN-MISSER
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

"Afterwhiles," copyright 1898, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Used by special permission of the publishers.

THE ELOCUTIONIST'S CURFEW
BY W. D. NESBIT

Reprinted from Harper's Magazine, by permission of Harper and Brothers.

MELPOMENUS JONES
BY STEPHEN LEACOCK

Some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think——" Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues.

I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate—such a dear young man and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own—absolutely nothing to do. He chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:

"Well, I think I——"

But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no, Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?"

Jones was always truthful—"Oh, yes, of course, I—er—can."

"Then please don't go."

He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again.

"Well, now, I think I really——"

"You must go? I thought perhaps you could have stayed to dinner——"

"Oh, well, so I could, you know, if——"

"Then please stay; I'm sure my husband will be delighted."

"All right, I'll stay"; and he sank back into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable.

Father came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid.

After dinner mother undertook to "draw him out" and showed him photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them—photos of father's uncle and his wife, and mother's brother and his little boy, and awfully interesting photos of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of father's grandfather's partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of father as the devil for a fancy-dress ball.

At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose.

"I must say good-night now," he pleaded.

"Say good-night! why it's only half-past eight! Have you anything to do?"

"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, and then laughed miserably.

Just then it turned out that the favorite child of the family, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones' hat; so father said that he must stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Father had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then father began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night—they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and father put Jones to bed in the spare-room and curst him heartily.

After breakfast next day, father went off to his work in the city and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When father came home in the evening he was surprized and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung father's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child.

In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea and looking at photographs. He would stand for hours together gazing at the photograph of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform—talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing.

At length the crash came. They carried him up-stairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek: "Well, I think I——" and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry: "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Hear! Hear!"

At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said: "Well—the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon."

HER FIFTEEN MINUTES
BY TOM MASSON

Reprinted by permission of Life Publishing Company.

THE FOXES' TAILS
ANONYMOUS

Minister—Weel, Sandy, man; and how did ye like the sermon the day?

Precentor—Eh?

Minister—What did you think o' the discourse as a whole?

Precentor—All I was gaun to say was jeest this, that every noo and then in your discoorse the day—I dinna say oftener than noo and then—jeest occasionally—it struck me that there was maybe—frae time to time—jeest a wee bit o' exaggeration.

Minister—Exagger—what, Sir?

Precentor—Weel, maybe that's ower strong a word, I dinna want to offend ye. I mean jeest—amplification, like.

Minister—Exaggeration! amplification! What the deil mischief d'ye mean, Sir?

Precentor—There, there, there! I'll no say anither word. I dinna mean to rouse ye like that. All I meant to say was that you jeest streetched the pint a wee bit.

Minister—Streetched the pint! D'ye mean to say, Sir, that I tell lees?

Precentor—Oh! no, no, no—but I didna gang sae far as a' that.

Minister—Ye went quite far enough, Sir. Sandy, I call upon you, if ever ye should hear me say another word out o' joint, to pull me up there and then.

Precentor—Losh! Sir; but how could I pull ye up i' the kirk?

Minister—Ye can give me sort o' a signal.

Precentor—How could I gie ye a signal i' the kirk?

Minister—Ye could make some kind o' a noise.

Precentor—A noise i' the kirk?

Minister—Ay. Ye're sittin' just down aneath me, ye ken; so ye might just put up your held, and give a bit whustle (whistles), like that.

Precentor—A whustle!

Minister—Ay, a whustle!

Precentor—But would it no be an awfu' sin?

Minister—Hoots, man; doesna the wind whustle on the Sawbbath?

Precentor—Ay; I never thought o' that afore. Yes, the wind whustles.

Minister—Well, just a wee bit soughing whustle like the wind (whistles softly).

Precentor—Well, if there's nae harm in 't, I'll do my best.

So, ultimately, it was agreed between the minister and precentor, that the first word of exaggeration from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk below.

Next Sunday came. Had the minister only stuck to his sermon that day, he would have done very well. But it was his habit, before the sermon, to read a chapter from the Bible, adding such remarks and explanations of his own as he thought necessary. On the present occasion he had chosen one that bristled with difficulties. It was that chapter which describes Samson as catching three hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, setting firebrands in their midst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and burning it down. As he closed the description, he shut the book, and commenced the eloocidation as follows:

"My dear freends, I daresay you have been wondering in your minds how it was possible that Samson could catch three hundred foxes.

"Well, then, we are told in the Scriptures that Samson was the strongest man that ever lived. But, we are not told that he was a great runner. But if he catched these three hundred foxes he must have been a great runner, and therefore I contend that we have a perfect right to assume, by all the laws of Logic and Scientific History, that he was the fastest runner that ever was born; and that was how he catched his three hundred foxes!

"But after we get rid of this difficulty, my freends, another crops up—after he has catched his three hundred foxes, how does he manage to keep them all together?

"Now you will please bear in mind, in the first place, that it was foxes that Samson catched. Now we don't catch foxes, as a general rule, in the streets of a toon; therefore it is more than probable that Samson catched them in the country, and if he catched them in the country it is natural to suppose that he 'bided in the country; and if he 'bided in the country it is not unlikely that he lived at a farm-house. Now at farm-houses we have stables and barns, and therefore we may now consider it a settled pint, that as he catched his foxes, one by one, he stapped them into a good-sized barn, and steeked the door and locked it,—here we overcome the second stumbling-block. But no sooner have we done this, than a third rock of offense loups up to fickle us. After he has catched his foxes; after he has got them all snug in the barn under lock and key—how in the world did he tie their tails together? There is a fickler. But it is a great thing for poor, ignorant folk like you, that there has been great and learned men who have been to colleges, and universities, and seats o' learning—the same as mysel', ye ken—and instead o' going into the kirk, like me, they have gone traveling into foreign parts; and they have written books o' their travels; and we can read their books. Now, among other places, some of these learned men have traveled into Canaan, and some into Palestine, and some few into the Holy Land; and these last mentioned travelers tell us, that in these Eastern or Oriental climes, the foxes there are a total different breed o' cattle a'thegither frae our foxes; that they are great, big beasts—and, what's the most astonishing thing about them, and what helps to explain this wonderful feat of Samson's, is, that they've all got most extraordinary long tails; in fact, these Eastern travelers tell us that these foxes' tails are actually forty feet long.

Precentor (whistles).

Minister (somewhat disturbed)—"Oh! I ought to say that there are other travelers, and later travelers than the travelers I've been talking to you about, and they say this statement is rather an exaggeration on the whole, and that these foxes' tails are never more than twenty feet long.

Precentor (whistles).

Minister (disturbed and confused)—"Be—be—before I leave this subject a'thegither, my freends, I may just add that there has been a considerable diversity o' opinion about the length o' these animals' tails. Ye see one man says one thing, and anither, anither; and I've spent a good lot o' learned research in the matter mysel'; and after examining one authority, and anither authority, and putting one authority again the ither, I've come to the conclusion that these foxes' tails, on an average, are seldom more than fifteen and a half feet long.

Precentor (whistles).

Minister (angrily)—"Sandy McDonald, I'll no tak anither inch off o' the beasts' tails, even gin ye should whustle every tooth oot o' your head. Do ye think the foxes o' the Scriptures had na tails at a'?"

THE DEAD KITTEN
ANONYMOUS

THE WEATHER FIEND
ANONYMOUS

One hot day last summer, a young man dressed in thin clothes, entered a Broadway car, and seating himself opposite a stout old gentleman, said, pleasantly:

"Pretty warm, isn't it?"

"What's pretty warm?"

"Why, the weather."

"What weather?"

"Why, this weather."

"Well, how's this different from any other weather?"

"Well, it is warmer."

"How do you know it is?"

"I suppose it is."

"Isn't the weather the same everywhere?"

"Why, no,—no; it's warmer in some places and it's colder in others."

"What makes it warmer in some places than it's colder in others?"

"Why, the sun,—the effect of the sun's heat."

"Makes it colder in some places than it's warmer in others? Never heard of such a thing."

"No, no, no. I didn't mean that. The sun makes it warmer."

"Then what makes it colder?"

"I believe it's the ice."

"What ice?"

"Why, the ice,—the ice,—the ice that was frozen by—by—by the frost."

"Have you ever seen any ice that wasn't frozen?"

"No,—that is, I believe I haven't."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I was just trying to talk about the weather."

"And what do you know about it,—what do you know about the weather?"

"Well, I thought I knew something, but I see I don't and that's a fact."

"No, sir, I should say you didn't! Yet you come into this car and force yourself upon the attention of a stranger and begin to talk about the weather as tho you owned it, and I find you don't know a solitary thing about the matter you yourself selected for a topic of conversation. You don't know one thing about meteorological conditions, principles, or phenomena; you can't tell me why it is warm in August and cold in December; you don't know why icicles form faster in the sunlight than they do in the shade; you don't know why the earth grows colder as it comes nearer the sun; you can't tell why a man can be sun-struck in the shade; you can't tell me how a cyclone is formed nor how the trade-winds blow; you couldn't find the calm-center of a storm if your life depended on it; you don't know what a sirocco is nor where the southwest monsoon blows; you don't know the average rainfall in the United States for the past and current year; you don't know why the wind dries up the ground more quickly than a hot sun; you don't know why the dew falls at night and dries up in the day; you can't explain the formation of fog; you don't know one solitary thing about the weather and you are just like a thousand and one other people who always begin talking about the weather because they don't know anything else, when, by the Aurora Borealis, they know less about the weather than they do about anything else in the world, sir!"

THE RACE QUESTION
BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Scene: Race-track. Enter old colored man, seating himself.

"Oomph, oomph. De work of de devil sho' do p'ospah. How 'do, suh? Des tol'able, thankee, suh. How you come on? Oh, I was des asayin' how de wo'k of de ol' boy do p'ospah. Doesn't I frequent the race-track? No, suh; no, suh. I's Baptis' myse'f an' I 'low hit's all devil's doin's. Wouldn't 'a' be'n hyeah to-day, but I got a boy named Jim dat's long gone in sin an' he gwine ride one dem hosses. Oomph, dat boy! I sut'ny has talked to him and labohed wid him night an' day, but it was allers in vain, an' I's feahed dat de day of his reckonin' is at han'.

"Ain't I nevah been intrusted in racin'? Humph, you don't s'pose I been dead all my life, does you? What you laffin at? Oh, scuse me, scuse me, you unnerstan' what I means. You don' give a ol' man time to splain hisse'f. What I means is dat dey has been days when I walked in de counsels of de ongawdly and set in de seats of sinnahs; and long erbout dem times I did tek most ovahly strong to racin'.

"How long dat been? Oh, dat's way long back, 'fo I got religion, mo'n thuty years ago, dough I got to own I has fell from grace several times sense.

"Yes, suh, I ust to ride. Ki-yi! I nevah furgit de day dat my ol' Mas' Jack put me on 'June Boy,' his black geldin', an' say to me, 'Si,' says he, 'if you don' ride de tail offen Cunnel Scott's mare, "No Quit," I's gwine to larrup you twell you cain't set in de saddle no mo'.' Hyah, hyah. My ol' Mas' was a mighty han' fu' a joke. I knowed he wan't gwine to do nuffin' to me.

"Did I win? Why, whut you spec' I's doin' hyeah ef I hadn' winned? W'y, ef I'd 'a' let dat Scott maih beat my 'June Boy' I'd 'a' drowned myse'f in Bull Skin Crick.

"Yes, suh, I winned; w'y, at de finish I come down dat track lak hit was de Jedgment Day an' I was de las' one up! 'f I didn't race dat maih's tail clean off. I 'low I made hit do a lot o' switchin'. An' aftah dat my wife Mandy she ma'ed me. Hyah, hyah, I ain't bin much on hol'in' de reins sence.

"Sh! dey comin' in to wa'm up. Dat Jim, dat Jim, dat my boy; you nasty, putrid little raskil. Des a hundred an' eight, suh, des a hundred an' eight. Yas, suh, dat's my Jim; I don' know whaih he gits his dev'ment at.

"What's de mattah wid dat boy? Whyn't he hunch hisse'f up on dat saddle right? Jim, Jim, whyn't you limber up, boy; hunch yo'sef up on dat hose lak you belonged to him and knowed you was dah. What I done showed you? De black raskil, goin' out dah tryin' to disgrace his own daddy. Hyeah he come back. Dat's bettah, you scoun'ril.

"Dat's a right smaht-lookin' hoss he's a-ridin', but I ain't a-trustin' dat bay wid de white feet—dat is, not altogethah. She's a favourwright, too; but dey's sumpin' else in dis worl' sides playin' favourwrights. Jim battah had win dis race. His hoss ain't a five to one shot, but I spec's to go way fum hyeah wid money ernuff to mek a donation on de pa'sonage.

"Does I bet? Well, I don' des call hit bettin'; but I resks a little w'en I t'inks I kin he'p de cause. 'Tain't gamblin', o' co'se; I wouldn't gamble fu nothin', dough my ol' Mastah did ust to say dat a hones' gamblah was ez good ez a hones' preachah an' mos' nigh ez skace.

"Look out dah, man, dey's off, dat nasty bay maih wid de white feet leadin' right f'um de pos'. I knowed it! I knowed it! I had my eye on huh all de time. O Jim, Jim, why didn't you git in bettah, way back dah fouf? Dah go de gong! I knowed dat wasn't no staht. Troop back dah, you raskils, hyah, hyah.

"I wush day boy wouldn't do so much jummyin erroun' wid day hoss. Fust t'ing he know he ain't gwine to know whaih he's at.

"Dah, dah dey go ag'in. Hit's a sho' t'ing dis time. Bettah, Jim, bettah. Dey didn't leave you dis time. Hug dat bay maih, hug her close, boy. Don't press dat hoss yit. He holdin' back a lot o' t'ings.

"He's gainin'! doggone my cats, he's gainin'! an' dat hoss o' his'n gwine des ez stiddy ez a rockin'-chair. Jim allus was a good boy.

"Counfound these spec's, I cain't see 'em skacely; huh, you say dey's neck an' neck; now I see 'em! and Jimmy's a-ridin' like—— Huh, huh, I laik to said sumpin'.

"De bay maih's done huh bes', she's done huh bes'! Dey's turned into the stretch an' still see-sawin'. Let him out, Jimmy, let him out! Dat boy done th'owed de reins away. Come on, Jimmy, come on! He's leadin' by a nose. Come on, I tell you, you black rapscallion, come on! Give 'em hell, Jimmy! give 'em hell! Under de wire an'a len'th ahead. Doggone my cats! wake me up wen dat othah hoss comes in.

"No, suh, I ain't gwine stay no longah—I don't app'ove o' racin'; I's gwine 'roun' an' see dis hyeah bookmakah an' den I's gwine dreckly home, suh, dreckly home. I's Baptis' myse'f, an' I don't app'ove o' no sich doin's!"

Reprinted by permission from "The Heart of Happy Hollow," Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.

WHEN THE WOODBINE TURNS RED
ANONYMOUS

CUPID'S CASUISTRY
BY W. J. LAMPTON

WHEN MAH LADY YAWNS
BY CHARLES T. GRILLEY

WATCHIN' THE SPARKIN'
BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

By permission of Messrs. Forbes & Co., Chicago.

THE WAY OF A WOMAN
BY BYRON W. KING

It was the last night before leap-year; it was the last hour before leap-year; in fact, the minute-hand had moved round the dial face of the clock until it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,—fifteen minutes of leap-year. John and Mary were seated in Mary's father's parlor. There was plenty of furniture there but they were using only a limited portion of it. John watched the minute-hand move round the dial face of the clock until, like the finger of destiny, it registered fifteen minutes of twelve,—fifteen minutes of leap-year, when he gasped hard, clutched his coat collar, and said,—

"Mary, in just fifteen minutes, Mary,—fifteen minutes by that clock, Mary,—another year, Mary,—like the six thousand years that have gone before it, Mary,—will have gone into the great Past and be forgotten in oblivion, Mary,—and I want to ask you, Mary,—to-night, Mary,—on this sofa, Mary,—if for the next six thousand years,—Mary!!!——"

"John," she said with a winning smile, "you seem very much excited, John,—can I do anything to help you, John?"

"Just sit still, Mary,—just sit still. In just twelve minutes, Mary,—twelve minutes by this clock, Mary,—like the six thousand clocks that have gone before it, Mary,—will be forgotten, Mary,—and I want to ask this clock, Mary,—to-night, on this sofa, Mary,—if when we've been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,—in oblivion, Mary,—and six thousand sofas, Mary!!——"

"John," she said, more smilingly than ever, "you seem quite nervous; would you like to see father?"

"Not for the world, Mary, not for the world! In just eight minutes, Mary,—eight minutes by that awful clock, we'll be forgotten, Mary,—and I want to ask six thousand fathers, Mary,—if when this sofa, Mary,—has been forgotten six thousand times, Mary,—in six thousand oblivions,—I want to ask six thousand Marys six thousand times, Mary!!!!——"

"John," she said, "you don't seem very well. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Mary,—in just three minutes, Mary,—three minutes by that dreadful clock, Mary,—we'll be forgotten, Mary,—six thousand times,—and I want to ask six thousand sofas, Mary,—if when six thousand oblivions have forgotten six thousand fathers in six thousand years, I want to ask six thousand Marys, six thousand times, Mary!!!!——"

Bang! the clock struck. It was leap-year. The clock struck twelve and Mary turning to John, sweetly said:

"John, it's leap-year; will you marry me?"

"Yes!!!"

Gentlemen, there is no use talking, the way of a woman beats you all.

THE YACHT CLUB SPEECH
ANONYMOUS

Mr. Chairman—a—a—a—Mr. Commodore—beg pardon—I assure you that until this moment I had not the remotest expectation that I should be called upon to reply to this toast. (Pauses, turns round, pulls MS. out of pocket and looks at it.) Therefore I must beg of you, Mr. Captain—a—a—Mr. Commatain—a—a—Mr.—Mr. Cappadore—that you will pardon the confused nature of these remarks, being as they must necessarily be altogether impromptu and extempore. (Pauses, turns round and looks at MS.) But Mr. Bos'an—a—a—Mr. Bosadore—I feel—I feel even in these few confused expromptu and intempore—intomptu and exprempore—extemptu and imprempore—exprompore remarks—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet, words of the poet—poet—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet—of the poet—poet, and in these few confused remarks—in the words of the poet—(turns round, looks at MS.)—I feel that I can say in the words of the poet that I feel my heart swell within me. Now Mr. Capasun, Mr. Commasun, why does my heart swell within me—in the few confused—why does my heart swell within me—swell within me—swell within me—what makes my heart swell within me—why does it swell—swell within me? (Turns round and looks at MS.) Why, Mr. Cappadore—look at George Washington—what did he do?—in the few confused——(Strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come.) He—huh—he—huh—he—huh—(turns round and looks at MS.)—he took his stand upon the ship of state—he stood upon the maintopgallant-jib-boomsail and reefed the quivering sail—and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition—a—a—a—into the haven of safety. And what did he do then? What did he do then? What did he do then? He—he—he—(looks at MS.)—there he stood. And then his grateful country-men gathered round him—they gathered round George Washington—they placed him on the summit of the cipadel—their capadol—they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world—around his brow they placed a never-dying wreath—and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear——(Flourishes MS. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion.)

MAMMY'S LI'L' BOY
BY H. S. EDWARDS

Reprinted by permission

CORYDON
BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

Shepherd

Pilgrim

Shepherd

Pilgrim

Shepherd

Pilgrim

Shepherd

Pilgrim

Shepherd

Pilgrim

Shepherd

Pilgrim

Shepherd—thoughtfully

Pilgrim—solus

From the Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Household Edition, by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

GIB HIM ONE UB MINE
BY DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS

A LESSON WITH THE FAN
ANONYMOUS

THE UNDERTOW
BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN

MARKETING
ANONYMOUS

A little girl goes to market for her mother.

Butcher.—"Well, little girl, what can I do for you?"

Little Girl.—"How much is chops this morning, mister?"

B.—"Chops, 20 cents a pound, little girl."

L. G.—"Oh! 20 cents a pound for chops; that's awful expensive. How much is steak?"

B.—"Steak is 22 cents a pound."

L. G.—"That's too much! How much is chicken?"

B.—"Chicken is 25 cents a pound" (impatiently).

L. G.—"Oh! 25 cents for chicken. Well my ma don't want any of them!"

B.—"Well, little girl, what do you want?"

L. G.—"Oh, I want an automobile, but my ma wants 5 cents' worth of liver!"

A SPRING IDYL ON "GRASS"
BY NIXON WATERMAN

From "A Book of Verses," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.

INTRODUCIN' THE SPEECHER
BY EDWIN L. BARKER

Introductory Remarks. This selection is a little caricature, introducing two characters. "The Speecher" is one of those young men who has passed through college in one year,—passed through,—and has increasing difficulty in finding a hat large enough to fit his head. His oratorical powers have been praised by his friends, and he never misses an opportunity to exhibit his "great natural talent." "The Chairman" is frequently met in the smaller towns. He has lived there a long time, is acquainted with everybody, makes it a point to form the acquaintance of all newcomers, takes an interest in public affairs, and is often called upon to introduce the speakers who visit the town. His principal weakness is that in the course of his introductory remarks he usually says more than the speaker himself.

The Chairman. (Comes forward to table at center, stands at right, looks nervously at audience, goes to left of table, does not know what to do with hands, returns to right of table, begins in high, nervous voice.) "Gentlemen an' ladies—an' the rest on ye—(goes left of table) I s'pose ye all knowed afore, as per'aps ye do now, that I did not come out to make a speech; but to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher has jes come, an' is right in there. (Points with thumb over shoulder to L. and goes R. of table.) I don't know why 'twas they called on me to 'nounce the speecher, unless it is that I've lived here in your midst fer a long while, an' am 'quainted with very nigh every one fer four or five miles about, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is—right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) I s'pose I'm as well calc'lated to 'nounce the speecher as any on ye, an' I s'pose that's why I'm here to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is—right in there. (Points L. and goes R.) You know I've lived here in your midst a long time, an' have allus tuk an active part in all public affairs, an' I s'pose that's why they called on me to—to 'nounce the speecher. Now, the speecher is right in there. (Points L. and goes L.) As I said once afore, I've lived here in your midst fer a long time, an' have allus tuk active part in all public affairs, an' public doin's ginerally. Ye know I was 'pinted tax collector once, an' was road-overseer fer a little while, an' run fer constable of this here township—but I—I didn't git it. (Quickly.) Now, the speecher is—right there. (Points L. and goes R. Wipes forehead with handkerchief.) I jes want to say a word to the young men this evenin'—as I see quite a sprinklin' of 'em here—an' that is that I'd like fer all the young men to grow up an' hold high and honorable offices like I've done. But there, I can't stop any longer, 'cause the speecher is—right in there. (Starts to go, but returns.) Now, I don't want you to think I don't want to talk to ye, fer I do. I do so like to talk to the young men, an' the old men, an' them that are not men. (Smiles.) I love to talk to ye. But, of course, I can't talk to you now, 'cause the speecher is—right in there. (Points L.) But some other time when the speecher's not here—I think there'll be a time afore long—why, I'll talk to you. (Grows confused.) Of course, you know, I'd talk to you now; but—uh—that is—I think there'll be a time afore long—at some other—you know—I—you—the—(desperately) the speecher is right in there. (Rushes to L., stops, and with back to audience, concludes.) I will now interdoose to ye Charles William Albright, of Snigger's Crossroads, a very promisin' young attorney of that place, who will talk to ye. As I said afore, the speecher is right in here. Now, the speecher is right out there." (While standing with back to audience, run fingers through hair to give it a long, scholarly appearance, put on glasses, and take from chair roll of paper and place under arm. To be effective, this paper should be about one foot wide and ten feet long, folded in about five or six-inch folds. At conclusion of chairman's speech, turn and walk to table as the speecher.)

The Speecher. (Walks to table with a strut. Face should have a wise, solemn, self-satisfied expression. Stops at table, surveys the audience with solemn dignity, clears the throat, lays roll of paper on table, takes out handkerchief, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, lays handkerchief on table, surveys audience again, slowly unrolls paper and lays on table, surveys audience again, clears throat, wipes mouth, smacks lips, poses with one hand on table.) "Ladies—and—gentlemen—and fellow citizens. (Rises on toes and comes back on heels, as practised by some public speakers.) I have fully realized the magnitude of this auspicious occasion, and have brought from out the archives of wisdom one of those bright, extemporaneous subjects, to which, you know, I always do (rising inflection) ample justice. (Rises on toes, clears throat, applies handkerchief to forehead.) The subject for this evening's discussion (very solemn) is coal oil. (Clears throat and looks wise.) Now, the first question that arises is: How do they get it? (In measured tone, on toes, tapping words off on fingers of left hand with forefinger of right hand.) How—do—they—get—it? (Soaringly.) My dear friends, some get it by the pint, and some by the quart. (Clears throat, wipes perspiration from forehead.) But, you say, how do they get it in the first place? (Tragically.) Ah, my dear friends, as Horace Greeley has so fittingly exprest it—that is the question. (Quickly.) But I will explain. When they want to get it they take a great, mammoth auger (imitates) and they bore, and they bore, and they bore, and—(looks at paper quickly)—and they bore! And when they strike the oil it just squirts up. That's how they get it! (Rises on toes, smacks lips and looks wise.) Now, you all know, coal oil is used for a great many things. It is used for medicine, to burn in the lamp, to blow up servant girls when they make a fire with it, and—many other useful things. (Wipes mouth and puts handkerchief in pocket.) The gentlemen in charge will now pass the hat, being careful to lock the door back there so that none of those boys from Squeedunk can get out before they chip in. (Takes paper and rolls it up.) I will say that I expect to deliver another lecture here two weeks from to-night—two weeks from to-night—upon which occasion I would like to see all the children present, as the subject will be of special interest to (rises on toes, closes eyes) the little ones. The subject on that occasion will be 'Will We Bust the Trusts, or Will the Trusts Bust Us?'" (Puts roll of paper under arm and stalks off as if having captured the world.)

As recited by Edwin L. Barker and used by permission.

COUNTING ONE HUNDRED
BY JAMES M. BAILEY

A Danbury man named Reubens, recently saw a statement that counting one hundred when tempted to speak an angry word would save a man a great deal of trouble. This statement sounded a little singular at first, but the more he read it over the more favorably he became imprest with it, and finally concluded to adopt it.

Next door to Reubens lives a man who made five distinct attempts in a fortnight to secure a dinner of green peas by the first of July, but has been retarded by Reubens' hens. The next morning after Reubens made his resolution, this man found his fifth attempt had been destroyed. Then he called on Reubens. He said:

"What in thunder do you mean by letting your hens tear up my garden?"

Reubens was prompted to call him various names, but he remembered his resolution, put down his rage, and meekly said:

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight——"

The mad neighbor, who had been eyeing this answer with suspicion, broke in again:

"Why don't you answer my question, you rascal?"

But still Reubens maintained his equanimity, and went on with the test.

"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen——"

The mad neighbor stared harder than ever.

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one——"

"You're a mean thief!" said the mad neighbor, backing toward the fence.

Reubens' face flushed at this charge, but he only said:

"Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six——"

At this figure the neighbor got up on the fence in some haste, but suddenly thinking of his peas, he said:

"You mean, contemptible, old rascal! I could knock your head against my barn and I'll——"

"Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three——"

Here the neighbor ran for the house, and entering it, violently slammed the door behind him. Reubens did not let up on the enumeration, but stood out there alone in his own yard, and kept on counting, while his burning cheeks and flashing eyes eloquently affirmed his judgment. When he got up into the eighties his wife came out to him in some alarm.

"Why, Reubens, man, what is the matter with you? Do come into the house."

But he didn't stop.

"Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two——"

Then she came to him, and clung tremblingly to him, but he only turned, looked into her eyes, and said:

"Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! Go into the house, old woman, or I'll bust you!"

THEY NEVER QUARRELED
ANONYMOUS

They had been married about three weeks, and had just gone to housekeeping. He was starting down town one morning, and she followed him to the door. They had their arms wrapt around each other, and she was saying:

"O Clarence, do you think it possible that the day can ever come when we will part in anger?"

"Why, no, little girl, of course not. What put that foolish idea into my little birdie's head, eh?"

"Oh, nothing, dearest. I was only thinking how perfectly dreadful it would be if one of us should speak harshly to the other."

"Well, don't think of such wicked, utterly impossible things any more. We can never, never, never quarrel."

"I know it, darling. Good-by, you dear old precious, good-by, and—oh, wait a second, Clarence; I've written a note to mamma; can't you run around to the house and leave it for her some time to-day?"

"Why, yes, dearie; if I have time."

"If you have time? O Clarence!"

"What is it, little girlie?"

"Oh, to say 'if you have time' to do almost the very first errand your little wife asks you to do."

"Well, well, I expect to be very busy to-day."

"Too busy to please me? O Clarence, you hurt my feelings so."

"Why, child, I——"

"I'm not a child, I'm a married woman, and I——"

"There, there, my pet. I——"

"No, no, Clarence, if I were your p—p—pet you'd——"

"But, Mabel, do be reasonable."

"O Clarence! don't speak to me so."

"Mable, be sensible, and——"

"Go on, Clarence, go on; break my heart."

"Stuff and nonsense."

"Oh! o—o—o—o—oh!"

"What have I said or done?"

"As if you need ask! But go—hate me if you will, Clarence, I——"

"This is rank nonsense!"

"I'll go back to mamma if you want me to. She loves me, if you don't."

"You must have a brain-storm!"

"Oh! yes, sneer at me, ridicule me, break my poor heart. Perhaps you had better strike me!"

He bangs the door, goes down the steps on the jump, and races off, muttering something about women being the "queerest creatures."

Of course, they'll make it up when he comes home, and they'll have many a little tiff in the years to come, and when they grow old they'll say:

"We've lived together forty-five years, and in all that time have never spoken a cross word to each other!"

SONG OF THE "L"
BY GRENVILLE KLEISER

Note—The New York elevated cars were so overcrowded at the rush hours of the day that passengers were obliged to ride on engines.

THE VILLAGE ORACLE
BY J. L. HARBOUR

"Why, Mis' Farley, is it really you? It's been so long sence I saw you that I hardly knowed you. Come in an' set down. I was jest a-wishin' some one would come in. I've felt so kind of downsy all mornin'. I reckon like enough it is my stummick. I thought some of goin' to see old Doctor Ball about it, but, la, I know jest what he'd say. He'd look at my tongue an' say, 'Coffee,' an' look cross. He lays half the mis'ry o' the world to coffee. Says it is a rank pizen to most folks, an' that lots o' the folks now wearin' glasses wouldn't need 'em if they'd let coffee alone. Says it works on the ocular nerves an' all that, but I reckon folks here in Granby will go on drinkin' coffee jest the same.

"You won't mind if I keep right on with my work, will you, seein' that it ain't nothin' but sewin' carpet-rags? I've got to send my rags to the weaver this week, or she can't weave my carpet until after she comes home from a visit she 'lows on makin' to her sister over in Zoar. It's just a hit-er-miss strip o' carpet I'm makin' for my small south chamber. I set out to make somethin' kind o' fancy with a twisted strip an' the chain in five colors, but I found I hadn't the right kind of rags to carry it through as I wanted to; so I jest decided on a plain hit-er-miss. I don't use the south chamber no great nohow. It's the room my first husband and his first wife and sev'ral of his kin all died in; so the 'sociations ain't none too cheerin', an' I—I—s'pose you know about Lyddy Baxter losin' her husband last week? No? Well, he's went the way o' the airth, an' Lyddy wore my mournin'-veil an' gloves to the funeral. They're as good as they were the day I follered my two husbands to the grave in 'em. When a body pays two dollars an' sixty-eight cents for a mournin'-veil, it behooves 'em to take keer of it, an' not switch it out wearin' it common as Sally Dodd did hern. If a body happens to marry a second time, as I did, a mournin'-veil may come in handy, jest as mine did.

"Yes, Lyddy's husband did go off real sudden. It was this new-fashioned trouble, the appendysheetus, that tuk him off. They was jest gittin' ready to op'rate on him when he went off jest as easy as a glove. There's three thousand life-insurance; so Lyddy ain't as bereft as some would be. Now, if she'll only have good jedgement when she gits the money, an' not fool it away as Mis' Mack did her husband's life-insurance. He had only a thousand dollars, an' she put half of it on her back before three months, an' put three hundred into a pianny she couldn't play. She said a pianny give a house sech an air. I up an' told her that money would soon be all 'air' if she didn't stop foolin' it away.

"I wouldn't want it told as comin' from me, but I've heerd that it was her that put that advertisement in the paper about a widder with some means wishin' to correspond with a gentleman similarly situated with a view to matrimony. I reckon she had about fifty dollars left at that time. I tried to worm something about it out of the postmaster; for of course he'd know about her mail, but he was as close as a clam-shell. I reckon one has to be kind of discreet if one is postmaster, but he might of known that anything he told me wouldn't go no farther if he didn't want it to. I know when to speak an' when to hold my tongue if anybody in this town does.

"Did you know that Myra Dart was goin' to marry that Rylan chap? It's so. I got it from the best authority. An' she's nine years an' three months an' five days older than him. I looked it up in the town hist'ry. It's a good deal of a reesk for a man to marry a woman that's much older than he is.

"But, my land, it's a good deal of a reesk to git married at all nowadays. You never know what you're gittin' ontil it's too late to undo the matter. Seems to me there must be a screw loose somewhere, or matrimony wouldn't be the fizzle it is in so many instances. An' it's about six o' one an' half a dozen o' the other when it comes to dividin' the blame. You know my first husband was jestice o' the peace five years, an' he had considdable marryin' to do, an' I saw a good deal o' what loose idees some people had about matrimony.

"I recollect of one couple comin' in to git married one evenin'. They was both in middle life, an' them kind usually acts the silliest with the exception of a real old pair. They are the beaterees for silly actin'. Well, my husband never married any couple without makin' sure that there was no onlawful hindrances in the way o' past husbands and wives, an' so he says to the woman, 'Have you ever been married before?' An' she says jest as flippant, 'Yes, but he didn't live but three weeks; so it ain't wuth speakin' of.' Now wa'n't that scand'lous? It jest showed how lightly some folks look on the solemn ord'nance o' matrimony.

"I reckon you know that the Porters have a boy at their house? No? Well, they have. He was born at twenty minutes to one las' night, or this mornin' ruther, an' old Susan Puffer is to do the nussin'. I heard a wagon drive by here lickety-split at most midnight las' night an' I sez to myself, sez I, 'I'll bet that's Hi Porter tearin' off for old Susan Puffer', an' I got up, an' wrapped a blanket around me, an' waited for the wagon to come back; an' when it did, I called out, 'That you, Hi an' Susan?' It gives 'em a good deal of a start, but Susan called out that it was her, an' I went back to bed. Some folks would of been curious-minded enough to of went right over to the Porters', but I ain't that pryin' an' I didn't go over till after breakfast this mornin'.

"It's a real nice baby, an' it's goin' to be the livin' spit o' Hi exceptin' for its nose, which is its mother's all over; an' its mouth is the livin' counterpart o' its grandfather Porter's an' it's got the Davis ears. You know its mother was a Davis. I hope it won't have to be a bottle-riz baby. I don't care how good these infant foods may be; I don't think that a bottle-riz baby is ever the equal of one that ain't bottle-riz. The Lord must of intended mothers to nuss their babies, or He wouldn't of made 'em so they could. So I—must you be goin'? What's your hurry? I'd love to have you set all afternoon. It's so long sense you have been here, an' I do so enjoy havin' the neighbors drop in an' tell me all that's goin' on. I never go no place to hear the news. I wish you'd come in real often an' talk to me.

"Looks some like rain. I hope it'll be fair to-morrow, for I 'low on goin' over to Lucindy Baxter's to spend the day. Me an' her went over to Ware Monday, an' had a real nice all-day visit with Lucindy's married daughter. She's real nicely fixt, an' she had three kinds of cake besides cookies for tea. Seems to me one kind an' the cookies would o' been plenty. Mebbe she wanted to let us see that her husband was a good pervider.

"I went over to Zion Tuesday, an' Wednesday me an' Nancy Dodd went over to Becky Means's, and helped her quilt her album quilt; an' she had a chicken-pie for dinner that went a little ahead of anything I ever et in the way of chicken-pie. Nancy's a good cook anyhow. She gives a kind of a taste to things that only a born cook can give. I'm goin' over to the fair in Greenfield Friday; so I—do come over again soon. I git real lonesome stayin' to home close as I do, an' it's nice to have some one come in an' talk to me as you have. Good-by.

"Yes, I'll come over soon. But don't you wait for me. Come when you kin. I'm allus to home. Good-by. See my little chicks? I put a hen on thirteen eggs, an' she hatched out every blessed one of 'em. Wa'n't she smart? An she laid all the eggs herself, too. I got another hen comin' off on the tenth. Didn't the minister preach beautifully Sunday? I dunno as I ever heard a more upliftin' sermon. I see that his wife has her black silk made up that the Ladies' Society gave her on her birthday. Didn't seem to me it fit real well under the arms. Well, good-by, good-by."

By permission of the author and the Christian Endeavor World.

IF I CAN BE BY HER
BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN KING

From "Ben King's Verse," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago.

McCARTHY AND McMANUS
ANONYMOUS

An Irishman named Patrick McCarthy, having received an invitation to visit some friends who were stopping at one of the prominent hotels, suddenly realized that his best suit needed pressing. He sent the suit to his friend Michael McManus, the tailor, with instructions to put it in proper shape and to return it with all haste.

After waiting an hour or more, he became very impatient, and asked his wife to go for the clothes, telling her to be sure to bring them back with her. When she returned he was surprized to find she had not brought back his suit, and he said:

"Well, where are my clothes?"

"Don't ask me, don't ask me. I'm thot mad I'm almost afther killin' thot McManus!"

"Pfhot's thot? Pfhot's McManus done with thim?"

"He's done nothin' with thim, and he barely took notice of me."

"Shure woman, dear, pfhot's that you be tellin' me? Did Mac insult you,—for the love of hivins tell me quick?"

"Well, I will tell you. Whin I wint into the shop, there was McManus; instid of sittin' on the table as usual, he was sittin' forninst it, with a long shate of paper spread out, and he was a-writin' and a-writin' and a-writin'. Says I, 'Mr. McManus.' No answer. Again I says, 'Mr. McManus.' Still no answer. Says I, 'Look here, Mr. McManus, pfhot do you mean by kapin' my husband waitin' for his clothes?—have you got thim done?' Without raisin' his head he says, 'No, I haven't,' and wint on writin' and writin'. Says I, 'He's waitin' for thim.' Says he, 'Let him wait.' Says I, 'He won't.' Says he, 'He'll have to.' Says I, 'Pfhot do you mean by writin' thot long document, knowin' well thot my husband is waitin' for his clothes?' Says he, 'Well, if you must know, it's important business. Do you see thot list?' pointin' to a long list of names. 'Well,' says he, 'thot's a list of all the min thot I can lick in this neighborhood.' Says I, 'Is thot so?' Says he, 'Yes, thot is so.' Says I, 'Mr. McManus, have you got my husband's name on thot list?' Says he, takin' up the list and holdin' it near my face, 'Look at thot,—the very first name on the list!' and I was thot mad I couldn't talk."

"Do you mean to tell me thot he had my name on thot list?"

"I do, and the very first one,—on the very top."

"Well, wait till I go over and see McManus."

A few minutes later Mr. McCarthy entered the shop of Mr. McManus, and said,

"Is McManus here?"

McManus replied, "He is and he's very busy."

"Is thot so?"

"Yes, thot is so."

"Look here, McManus, pfhot makes you so busy?"

"Oh, I'm just doin' a little writin'."

"Well, what is it you're writin'?"

"Well, I'll tell you. I'm makin' out a list of all the min thot I can lick in this neighborhood, and a moighty big list it is. Just look at thot."

"Say Mac, is my name on thot list?"

"Is Pat McCarthy's name on this list? Well, you can just bet your life it is, and it's the very first one!"

"Is thot so, McManus?"

"Yes, thot's so."

McCarthy, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, said:

"Look here, McManus, I can lick you."

"Did you say you thought you could lick me?"

"I said I can lick you."

"You say you can lick me?"

"Yes, thot's what I said."

"All right. Off goes your name from the list."

AND SHE CRIED
BY MINNA IRVING

By permission of the author and of the New York Herald.

DOT LEEDLE BOY
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

From "Green Fields and Running Brooks," copyright 1892. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

MR. DOOLEY ON THE GRIP
BY FINLAY PETER DUNNE

Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! I feels as if a dhray had run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not? Well, ye're lucky. Ye're a lucky man.

"I wint to MCGuire's wake las' week. They gave him a dacint sind-off. No porther. An' himself looked natural, as fine a corpse as iver Gavin layed out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as proud iv McGuire as if he owned him. Fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan iv thim cards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinity-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me cards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.

"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lastewise, it is me own opinion iv it, tho th' docthor said I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' MCGuires is a clane fam'ly; but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. 'What sort if bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Ye have Mickrobes in ye're lungs,' he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in, an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye're system does be full if thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'marchin' an' counter-marchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to the saints!' says I. 'Had I better swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an' lave thim alone,' he says; 'whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'

"So I wint to bed, an' waited while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Mondah all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wurruds come up between th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wexford; an' th' whole party wint over to me left lung, where they cud get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a tobaggan slide iv me spine; an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wurkin' f' th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.

"They was tired out th' nex' day till about five o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms; an' I knew there was goin' to be doin's in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' ev'nin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At six o'clock they begin to move fr'm me shins to me throat. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands, an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes on dhrays. A trolley line was started up me back, an iv'ry car run into a wagon-load if scrap iron at th' base if me skull.

"Th' Mickrobes in me head must 've done thimselves proud. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables; an' in less time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin matches in me forehead; but they all stopt, to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv men, women, an childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brick-bats, flyin' in th' air! How many iv thim was kilt I niver knew; f'r I wint as daft as a hen, an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign Club that'd sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day-old baby's, an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle, save an' excipt thim West if Ireland Fenians, th' Mickrobes."

By permission of Small, Maynard & Company.

A RAINY DAY EPISODE
ANONYMOUS

One morning recently as I was about to start from my home, I noticed that it was raining very hard outside, and as I turned to the rack to get an umbrella I was surprized to find that out of five umbrellas there was not one in the lot I could use. On the impulse of the moment I decided to take the whole five down town to the umbrella hospital and have them all repaired at once.

Just as I started from the door my wife asked me to be sure and bring her umbrella back as she wanted to use it that evening. This imprest the subject of umbrellas very vividly on my mind, so I did not fail to leave the five umbrellas to be repaired, stating I would call for them on my way home in the evening.

When I went to lunch at noon it was still raining very hard, but as I had no umbrella this simply imprest the subject on my mind. I went to a nearby restaurant, sat down at a table, and had been there only a few minutes when a young lady came in and sat down at the same table with me. I was first to finish, however, and getting up I absent-mindedly picked up her umbrella and started for the door. She called out to me and reminded me that I had her umbrella, whereupon I returned it to her with much embarrassment and many apologies.

This incident served to impress the subject more deeply on my mind, so on my way home in the evening I called for my umbrellas, bought a newspaper, and boarded a street-car. I was deeply engrossed in my newspaper, having placed the five umbrellas alongside of me in the car, but all at once I had a peculiar feeling of someone staring at me. Suddenly I looked up from my paper, and was surprized to see sitting directly opposite me the same young woman I had met in the restaurant! She had a broad smile on her face, and looking straight into my eyes she said knowingly: "You've had a successful day, to-day, haven't you?"

I KNEW HE WOULD COME IF I WAITED
BY HORACE G. WILLIAMSON

LOVE'S MOODS AND SENSES
ANONYMOUS

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH
BY THOMAS HOOD

KATIE'S ANSWER
ANONYMOUS

"'SPÄCIALLY JIM"
ANONYMOUS

AGNES, I LOVE THEE!
ANONYMOUS

THE GORILLA
ANONYMOUS

BANGING A SENSATIONAL NOVELIST
ANONYMOUS

The other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella, and leading a small urchin, called at the office of a New York boys' story paper.

"Is this the place where they fight Indians?" she inquired of the young man in charge. "Is this the locality where the brave boy charges up the canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky redskin?" and she jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella down on the desk.

"We publish stories for boys, and——"

"I want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad springs upon his fiery mustang, and, darting through the circle of thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive's cords and bears him away before the wondering Indians have recovered from their astonishment? That's the information I'm after. I want to know if that sort of thing is perpetrated here!" and she swung the umbrella around her head.

"I don't remember those specific facts, but——"

"I want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy jumps on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim picks off one by one the bloodthirsty pursuers who bite the dust at every crack of the faithful rifle! I'm looking for the place where that sort of thing happens!" and this time she brought the unlucky man a tremendous whack across the back.

"I think——"

"I'm in search of the shop in which the boy road-agent holds the quivering stage-driver powerless with his glittering eye, while he robs the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and tried experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with a gallantry of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous nature! I'm looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!"

"Upon my word, madam, I——"

"I want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts of the Sierras! Show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the prairie! Point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the Spanish main!" and with each demand she brought her umbrella down on the young man's head until he jumped over the desk and sought safety in a neighboring canyon.

"I'll teach 'em!" she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and leading him off. "I'll teach 'em to make it good or dance. Want to go fight Indians any more (twisting the boy's ear)? Want to stand proudly upon the pinnacle of the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the bleeding bodies of uncounted slain? Propose to spring upon the taffrail and with a ringing word of command send a broadside into the richly-laden galley, and then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in the cabin, that she may become your bride? Eh? Going to do it any more?"

The boy exprest his permanent abandonment of all the glories enumerated.

"Then come along," said she, taking him by the collar. "Let me catch you around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you'll think the leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire has swept with a ferocious roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged under your jacket to stay!"

HOPKINS' LAST MOMENTS
ANONYMOUS

Nurses in hospitals are inclined to lay too much stress on the advantages received by the patients and their duty of thankfulness, but it is the poor soldier who suffers most from always having his cause to be grateful flung in his teeth. The following true story took place between the chaplain and the hospital orderly:

Chaplain—"So poor Hopkins is dead. I should like to have spoken to him once more and soothed his last moments. Why didn't you call me?"

Hospital Orderly—"I didn't think you ought to be disturbed for 'Opkins, sir; so I just soothed him as best I could myself."

Chaplain—"Why, what did you say to him?"

Orderly—"I sez, ''Opkins, you're mortal bad.'"

"'I am,' sez 'e."

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'I don't think you'll get better.'"

"'No,' sez 'e."

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'you're going fast.'"

"'Yes,' sez 'e."

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'I don't think you can 'ope to go to 'eaven.'"

"'I don't think I can,' sez 'e."

"'Well, then, 'Opkins,' sez I, 'you'll go to 'ell.'"

"'I suppose so,' sez 'e,"

"''Opkins,' sez I, 'you ought to be wery grateful as there's a place perwided for you, and that you've got somewhere to go.' And I think 'e 'eard, sir, for 'e just gave a little groan, turned over, and then 'e died."

THE FAIRIES' TEA
ANONYMOUS

COUNTING EGGS
ANONYMOUS

Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopt in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchase.

"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry."

"Are they fresh?"

"Fresh? Yes, indeed! I guantees 'em, an'—an'—de hen guantees 'em."

"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket."

"All right, mum; (he counts) one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You can rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son comin' on de school? He must be mos' grown."

"Yes, Uncle Moses; he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston."

"Why, how ole am de boy?"

"He is eighteen."

"You don't tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already! Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five. And how's your gal comin' on? She was most growed up de last time I seed her."

"She is married and living in Dallas."

"Wall, I declar'; how time scoots away! And you say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be just about——"

"Thirty-three."

"Am dat so? (Counting.) Firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don't look more den forty years old yerseff."

"Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old——"

"Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six—I want you to pay 'tenshun when I count de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah. Whew! Dis am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year when I feels I'se gettin' ole myself; I ain't long fur dis world. You comes from an ole family. When your fadder died he was sebenty years ole."

"Seventy-two."

"Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine. And your mudder? She was one ob de noblest-lookin' ladies I eber see. You remind me ob her so much! She libed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died."

"No, Uncle Moses; she was only ninety-six when she died."

"Den she wan't no chicken when she died, I know dat. Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight—dar, one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs—jess nine dozen; and here am one moah egg in case I have discounted myself."

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband:

"I am afraid that we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there, and heard Moses count them myself, and there were nine dozen."

THE OATMOBILE
ANONYMOUS

ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

By permission from "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903, the Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, Ind.

PROOF POSITIVE
ANONYMOUS

THE IRISH PHILOSOPHER
ANONYMOUS

Ladies and Gintlemen:—I see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before me, that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin' a seat myself.

You don't know me, I'm thinkin,' or some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore this.

I'm a walkin' pedestrian, a traveling philosopher; Terry O'Mulligan's me name. I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before me was raised and bred. Oh, philosophy is a foine study. I don't know anything about it, but it's a foine study. Before I kim over I attinded an important meetin' of philosophers in Dublin, and the discussin' and talkin' you'd hear there about the world 'ud warm the very heart of Socrates or Aristotle himself. Well, there was a great many imminent and learned min there at the meetin,' and I was there, too; and while we was in the very thickest of a heated argument a man comes up to me, and says he, "Do you know what we're talkin' about?" "I do," says I, "but I don't understand yees." "Could you explain the sun's motion round the earth?" says he. "I could," says I; "but I'd not know could you understand me or not." "Well," says he, "we'll see," says he.

Sure'n I didn't know anything how to get out of it then; so I piled in, for, says I to meself, never let on to anyone that you don't know anything, but make them believe that you do know all about it. So, says I to him, takin' up me shillalah this way (holding up a very crooked stick horizontally): "We will take that for the straight line of the earth's equator." How's that for gehoggraphy? (To the audience.) Oh, that was straight till the other day I bent it in an argument.

"Very good" says he. "Well," says I, "now the sun rises in the east." (Placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the stick.) Well, he couldn't deny that; "and," says I, "he-he-he-rises in the mornin'." No more could he deny that. "Very early," says I; "and when he gets up he

Do you moine the poetry there? (To the audience, with a smile.) "And he keeps on risin' an' risin' till he reaches his meridan." "What's that?" says he. "His dinner-toime," says I. "Sure'n that's my Latin for dinner-time. And when he gets his dinner

Oh, begorra, there's more poetry. I feel it croppin' out all over me.

"There," says I, well satisfied with mesilf, "will that do for ye?"

"You haven't got done with him," says he.

"Done with him?" says I, kinder mad-like. "What more do you want me to do with him? Didn't I bring him from the east to the west? What more do you want?" "Oh," says he, "you have to have him back agin in the east the next mornin'!"

By Saint Patrick, and wasn't I near betrayin' me ignorance. Sure'n I thought there was a large family of suns, and they riz one after the other; but I gathered meself quick, and says I to him, "Well," says I, "I'm surprized you ax me that simple question. I thought any man 'ud know" says I, "when the sun sinks to rest in the west that er—when the sun——" says I. "You said that before" says he. "Well, I want to impress it strongly upon you," says I. "When the sun sinks to rest behind the glorious hills of the east—no, west—why, he—why, he waits till it grows very dark and then he goes back in the noight-toime!"

BELAGCHOLLY DAYS
ANONYMOUS

A PANTOMIME SPEECH
ANONYMOUS

Have you ever realized what a funny thing it is to see a lot of people talking and gesticulating and not hear a single sound from them? The next time you are in a crowded dining-room, close your ears with your hands, and you will be quickly converted to the Darwinian theory.

This was forcibly imprest upon my mind at a political gathering. The hall was very large, but was crowded to the doors, so that when I reached there I was obliged to stand outside and on my toes to see the speakers. Please remember that altho I could in this way distinctly see the speakers, I was too far away to hear the slightest sound. It was simply a pantomime performance to me, and I shall try to give you a faithful representation of just what I saw.

Simply say: "The Chairman." The rest is pantomime. Seat yourself as an old man, put your right hand behind your ear as if listening to a side remark. Repeat to the left. Evidently someone has told you it is time to begin. Take out your watch and compare it with the clock on the wall behind you. Bring out an imaginary pair of spectacles, clean them with your handkerchief, and as you put them on your nose draw down your face as old men do. Get up with seeming difficulty. The business here is ad lib. Point to the speaker of the evening, who is supposed to be sitting at your right. By silent movements of the lips seem to introduce him to the audience. Then suddenly remember that you have something else to say just as you are about to sit down. Repeat this two or three times. Then sit down at last with much difficulty.

Then say aloud: "The Speaker." Impersonate him as assuming a grandiloquent air. While he speaks in pantomime he rises on his toes and makes numerous gestures. He pounds fist on table. Someone evidently interrupts him from the audience. He looks in that direction and then replies. He seems to say to the man to come up on the platform or else get out of the hall. He talks for some time as if in argument, then dodges as if something has been thrown at him. Two or three times he has to dodge in this way and then something seems to have struck him in the face. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes off face and coat. Then things are thrown at him from right and left, while he continues to dodge. At last they come so thick that he rushes off the platform in great alarm.

THE ORIGINAL LAMB
ANONYMOUS

WHEN PA WAS A BOY
BY S. E. KISER

By permission of Messrs. Forbes & Company, Chicago.

THE FRECKLED-FACED GIRL
(She entertains a visitor while her mother is dressing)
ANONYMOUS

"Ma's up-stairs changing her dress," said the freckled-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet-strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.

"Oh! your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror. "Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony."

"Oh! but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all drest up in her new brown silk, 'cause she expected Miss Diamond to-day. Miss Diamond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma don't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming, she said, 'The dickens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for more money to buy hymn-books to send to 'em. Say, do the nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen!"

"Why, you wicked little girl, why do you want a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.

"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle Dick—you know Uncle Dick, he's been out West, and he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off. She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she said she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a new muff worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle Dick says you ought to go to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natifs'd be sorry they was such sinners if anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you 'less 'twas a blind one, and you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary. Uncle Dick's awful funny, and makes pa and ma die laughing sometimes."

"Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved man, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a bad example for little girls like you."

"Oh! I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't 'round. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your good clothes with missionary money? Ma says you do."

Just then the freckled-faced little girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek, and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma can't understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Diamond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip.

WILLIE
BY MAX EHRMANN

AMATEUR NIGHT
ANONYMOUS

It was one of those little evening entertainments where everyone talks at once, where everyone asks questions and does not wait for an answer. Mrs. Fitzgibbon, the hostess, finally broke into the babble:

"Sh! I want you all to be very quiet. Mr. Chooker—Mr. Chooker,—please don't talk,—don't talk, please,—Mr. Chooker is very excitable. Chooker,—yes, he is one of the Chookers. Young people come off the stairs. Sh! I have very great pleasure in introducing to you Mr. Chooker."

Mr. Chooker came forward with a malicious look, which seemed to say, "You all seem to be very happy,—very jolly,—and enjoying yourselves. Just wait a bit. I am about to recite a little poem of my own entitled, 'The Triple Suicide!'"

Then came the boy of the family, a kind of child prodigy, who, after giving a low and jerky bow, recited as follows: (Here impersonate a boy in awkward style.)

"The women were crying, you know. Some were crying and others were weeping. Those that weren't weeping were crying!" (Pauses, then bows low, and begins again.)

"His blood was flowing along, you know. There was blood here and there. There was blood spattered over everything, and——" (Pauses long, bows low, and begins again with great determination and in loud voice.)

The young miss of the family, recently graduated, next gave an original poem entitled "The Hen," as follows:

The gem of the evening, however, was a recitation given in fine style by Mr. Chillingworth Chubb. He had rather a husky voice and a wooden arm. His memory, moreover, was defective. The effect of his wooden arm, which was made to perform the various actions of a real one, was highly amusing. (Here the reciter may use "Excelsior," "The Speech of Mark Antony," or some similar selection. The left arm represents the wooden one. The hand should wear a right-hand, white kid glove, put on wrong way round with the finger-tips screwed into points. The arm should be assisted in all its movements by the right one. It should be made to move in a jerky and unnatural manner at all its joints. A violent push at the elbow raises it suddenly aloft, and it is brought again to the side by a tremendous slap from the right hand. Finally, the arm appears to get out of order, and moves violently in all directions, until at last the right hand, after vainly trying to reach it, pins it down to a table or to some other object. This imitation requires considerable practise, but when properly done never fails to send an audience into fits of laughter.)

BOUNDING THE UNITED STATES
BY JOHN FISKE

Among the legends of our late Civil War there is a story of a dinner-party, given by the Americans residing in Paris, at which were propounded sundry toasts concerning not so much the past and present as the expected glories of the American nation. In the general character of these toasts, geographical considerations were very prominent, and the principal fact which seemed to occupy the minds of the speakers was the unprecedented bigness of our country.

"Here's to the United States!" said the first speaker,—"bounded on the north by British America, on the south by the Gulf of Mexico, on the east by the Atlantic Ocean, and on the west by the Pacific Ocean!" "But," said the second speaker, "this is far too limited a view of the subject, and, in assigning our boundaries, we must look to the great and glorious future, which is prescribed for us by the manifest destiny of the Anglo-Saxon race. Here's to the United States!—bounded on the north by the North Pole, on the east by the rising, and on the west by the setting, sun!"

Emphatic applause greeted the aspiring prophecy. But here arose the third speaker, a very serious gentleman, from the far West. "If we are going," said this truly patriotic gentleman, "to lessen the historic past and present, and take our manifest destiny into account, why restrict ourselves within the narrow limits assigned by our fellow countryman who has just sat down? I give you the United States!—bounded on the north by the Aurora Borealis, on the south by the precession of the equinoxes, on the east by the primeval chaos, and on the west by the Day of Judgment!"

DER DOG UND DER LOBSTER
ANONYMOUS

HE LAUGHED LAST
ANONYMOUS

A young man was sitting in the Grand Central Depot the other day, holding a baby in his arms, when the child began to cry so lustily as to attract the attention of everyone around him. By and by a waiting passenger walked over to him with a smile of pity on his face and said:

"A woman gave you that baby to hold while she went to see about her baggage, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Ha! ha! ha! I tumbled to the fact as soon as I saw you. You expect her back, I suppose?"

"Of course."

"Ha! ha! ha! This is rich! Looking for her every minute, aren't you?"

"Yes, and I think she'll come back."

"Well this makes me laugh,—ha! ha! ha! I had a woman play that same trick on me in a Chicago depot once, but no one ever will again. Young man, you've been played on for a hayseed. I would advise you to turn that baby over to a policeman and get out of here before some newspaper reporter gets hold of you."

"Oh, she'll come back, she'll come back."

"She will, eh? Ha! ha! ha! The joke grows richer and richer. Now what makes you think she'll come back?"

"Because she's my wife and this is our baby."

"Oh—um—I see," muttered the fat man, who got over feeling tickled all at once, and seeing a dog that a farmer had tied to one of the seats with a piece of clothes-line, he went over and gave it three swift kicks.

NORAH MURPHY AND THE SPIRITS
BY HENRY HATTON

Miss Honora Murphy, a young female engaged in the honorable and praiseworthy occupation of general housework, merely to dispel ennui, not hearing in some time from the "boy at home," to whom she was engaged to be married, was advised by the girl next door to consult the spirits. The result I shall give as detailed by her to her friend:

"How kem I by the black eye? Well, dear, I'll tell ye. Afther what yer wur tellin' me, I niver closed me eyes. The nixt marnin' I ast Maggie, the up-stairs gerrl, where was herself. 'In her boodoore,' sez Maggie, an' up I goes to her.

"'What's wantin', Nora?' sez she.

"'I've heerd as how me cousin's very sick,' sez I, 'an' I'm that frettin'. I must go an' see her.'

"'Fitter fur ye to go ter yer worruk,' sez she, lookin' mighty cross, an' she the lazy hulks as niver does a turn from mornin' till night.

"Well, dear, I niver takes sass from anny av 'em; so I ups an' tould her, 'Sorra taste av worruk I'll do the day, an' av yer don't like it, yer can find some one else,' an' I flounced mesel' out av the boodoore.

"Well, I wint to me room ter dress mesel', an' whin I got on me sale-shkin sack, I thought av me poor ould mother—may the hivins be her bed!—could only see me, how kilt she'd be intoirely. Whin I was drest I wint down-stairs an' out the front-doore, an' I tell yer I slammed it well after me.

"Well, me dear, whin I got ter the majum's, a big chap wid long hair and a baird like a billy-goat kem inter the room. Sez he:

"'Do yer want ter see the majum?'

"'I do,' sez I.

"'Two dollars,' sez he.

"'For what?' sez I.

"'For the sayants,' sez he.

"'Faix, it's no aunts I want ter see,' sez I, 'but Luke Corrigan's own self.' Well, me dear, wid that he giv a laugh ye'd think would riz the roof.

"'Is he yer husband?' sez he.

"'It's mighty 'quisitive ye are,' sez I, 'but he's not me husband, av yer want ter know, but I want ter larn av it's alive or dead he is, which the Lord forbid!'

"'Yer jist in the nick o' time,' sez he.

"'Faix, Ould Nick's here all the time, I'm thinkin', from what I hear,' sez I.

"Well, ter make a long story short, I paid me two dollars, an' wint into another room, an' if ye'd guess from now till Aisther, ye'd never think what the majum was. As I'm standin' here, 'twas nothin' but a woman! I was that bet, I was almost spacheless.

"'Be sated, madam,' sez she, p'intin' to a chair, 'yer must jine the circle.'

"'Faix, I'll ate a triangle, av yer wish,' sez I.

"'Yer must be very quiet,' sez she. An' so I set down along a lot av other folks at a table.

"'First I'll sing a hymn,' sez the majum, 'an' thin do all yees jine in the chorus.'

"Yer must excuse me, mum,' sez I. 'I niver could sing, but rather than spile the divarshun of the company, av any wan'll whistle, I'll dance as purty a jig as ye'll see from here to Bal'nasloe, tho it's meself as sez it.'

"Two young whipper-snappers begun ter laugh, but the look I gev them shut them up.

"Jist then, the big chap as had me two dollars kem into the room an' turned down the lights. In a minit the majum, shtickin' her face close to me own, whispers:

"'The sperrits is about—I kin feel them!'

"'Thrue for you, mum,' sez I, 'fur I kin shmell them!'

"'Hush, the influence is an me,' sez the majum. 'I kin see the lion an' the lamb lying down together.'

"'Bedad! it's like a wild beastess show,' sez I.

"'Will yer be quiet?' sez an ould chap next ter me. 'I hev a question to ax.'

"'Ax yer question,' sez I, 'an' I'll ax mine. I paid me two dollars, an' I'll not be put down.'

"'Plaze be quiet,' sez the majum, 'or the sperrits 'll lave.'

"Jist then came a rap on the table.

"'Is that the sperrit of Luke Corrigan?' sez the majum.

"'It is not,' sez I, 'for he could bate any boy in Killballyowen, an' if his fisht hit that table 'twould knock it to smithereens.'

"'Whist!' sez the majum, 'it's John Bunion.'

"'Ax him 'bout his progress,' sez a woman wid a face like a bowl of stirabout.

"'Ah, batherashin!' sez I. 'Let John's bunion alone, an' bring Luke Corrigan to the fore.'

"'Hish!' whispers the majum, 'I feel a sperrit near me.'

"'Feel av it has a lump on his nose,' sez I, 'for be that token ye'll know it's Luke.'

"'The moment is suspicious,' sez the majum.

"'I hope yer don't want to asperge me character,' sez I.

"'Whist!' sez she, 'the sperrits is droopin'.'

"'It's droppin' yer mane,' sez I, pickin' up a shmall bottle she let fall from her pocket.

"'Put that woman out,' sez an ould chap.

"'Who do you call a woman?' sez I. 'Lay a fing-er on me, an' I'll scratch a map of the County Clare on yer ugly phiz.'

"'Put her out!' 'Put her out!' sez two or three others, an' they made a lep for me. But, holy rocket! I was up in a minute.

"'Bring on yer fightin' sperrits,' I cried, 'from Julis Sazar to Tim Macould, an' I'll bate them all, for the glory of Ireland!'

"The big chap as had me money kem behind me, and put his elbow in me eye; but, me jewel, I tossed him over as ef he'd bin a feather, an' the money rolled out his pocket. Wid a cry of 'Faugh-a-ballah!' I grabbed six dollars, runned out av the doore, an' I'll niver put fut in the house again. An' that's how I kem be the black eye."

OPIE READ
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

THE VILLAGE CHOIR
After the Charge of the Light Brigade
ANONYMOUS

BILLY OF NEBRASKA
BY J. W. BENGOUGH

DOT LAMBS VOT MARY HAF GOT
ANONYMOUS

Moral

GEORGA WASHINGDONE
ANONYMOUS

Georga Washingdone vos a vera gooda man. Hees fadda he keepa bigga place in Washingdone Street. He hada a greata bigga lot planta wees cherra, peacha, pluma, chesnutta, peanutta, an' banan trees. He sella to mena keepa de standa. Gooda mana to Italia mana was Georga Washingdone. He hata de Irish. Kicka dem vay lika dees.

One tay wen litta Georga, hees son, vos dessa high, like de hoppa-grass, he take hees litta hatchet an' he beginna to fool round de place. He vos vera fresh, vos litta Georga. Poota soon he cutta downa de cherra tree lika dees. Dat spoila de cherra cropa for de season. Den he goa round trea killa de banan an' de peanutta.

Poota soon Georga's fadda coma rounda quicka lika dees. Den he lifta uppa hees fista looka lika big bunch a banan, an' he vos just goin' to giva litta Georga de smaka de snoota if he tola lie. Hees eyes blaze lika dees.

Litta Georga he say in hees minda, "I gitta puncha anyhow, so I tella de square ting." So he holda up hees litta hands lika dees, an' he calla "Tima!"

Den he says, "Fadda, I cutta de cherra tree weesa mia own litta hatchet!"

Hees fadda he say, "Coma to de barn weesa me! Litta Georga, I wanta speeka weesa you!"

Den hees fadda cutta big club, an' he spitta hees handa, lika dees!

Litta Georga say, "Fadda, I could notta tella de lie, because I knowa you caughta me deada to rights!"

Den de olda man he smila lika dees, an' he tooka litta Georga righta down to Wall Street, an' made him a present of de United States!

DA 'MERICANA GIRL
BY T. A. DALY

BECKY MILLER
ANONYMOUS

P. S. (pooty short)—Vell, he dold Becky to go avay enough dimes, enner how. I dinks he vas an uckly vellow. Vell, berhaps dot serfs Becky choost right for daking bresents from von vellow, vhile she vas vinking her nose by anoder vellow.

PAT AND THE MAYOR
ANONYMOUS

An Irishman named Patrick Maloney, recently landed, called upon the mayor to see if he could give him a position on the police force. The mayor, thinking he would have some fun with him, said:

"Before I can do anything for you, you will have to pass a Civil Service examination."

"Ah, dthin," said Pat, "and pfhat is the Civil Sarvice?"

"It means that you must answer three questions I put to you, and if you answer them correctly I may be able to place you."

"Well," said Pat, "I think I can answer dthim if they're not too hard."

"The first question is, 'What is the weight of the moon?'"

"Ah, now, how can I tell you that? Shure and I don't know."

"Well, try the second one, 'How many stars are in the sky?'"

"Now you're pokin' fun at me. How do I know how many Stars there are in the shky?"

"Then try the third question, and if you answer it correctly I'll forgive you the others, 'What am I thinking of?'"

"Pfhat are you thinkin' of? Shure, how can any man tell what you politicians are thinkin' about. Bedad I don't belave you know pfhat you're thinkin' about yourself. I guess I'll be lookin' for work ilsewhere, so good-day to you!"

The mayor called Pat back and told him not to be discouraged, but to go home and think about it, and if on the morrow he thought he could answer the questions to come down again and he would give him another chance.

So Pat went home and told his brother Mike about it, whereupon Mike said:

"Now you give me dthim clothes of yours and I'll go down and answer his questions for him."

So next morning Mike went down bright and early, and the mayor recognizing Patrick as he thought, said:

"Ah, good morning, Patrick. Have you really come back to answer those three questions I put to you yesterday?"

"Yis, I have."

"Well the first question is, 'What is the weight of the moon?'"

"The weight of the moon is one hundred pounds, twenty-five pounds to each quarther, four quarthers make one hundred."

"Capital, Patrick, capital! Now the second question is, 'How many stars are in the sky?'"

"How many shtars are in the shky? There are four billion, sivin million, noine hundred and thirty-two tousand and one."

"Splendid, Patrick, splendid. Now look out for the last question which is, 'What am I thinking of?'"

"Pfhat are you thinkin' of? Well I know pfhat you're thinkin' of. You're thinkin' I'm Pat, but you're tirribly mistakin'; I'm his brother Mike!"

THE WIND AND THE MOON
BY GEORGE MACDONALD

TOTAL ANNIHILATION
ANONYMOUS

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARRIED LIFE
ANONYMOUS

A well-drest woman walked into a prominent New York office building the other day and took one of the elevators. Her husband saw her from across the street, and hurrying over took the next elevator. He went to the office where he knew she had business, and found she had stept in only for a moment and had gone down again.

The elevator despatcher said to her: "Your husband just went up, and I think he's looking for you."

She took the next elevator up. Just then her husband came down. He looked all around and then inquired:

"Have you seen my wife here?"

"Yes, she went up this minute."

He took the next elevator and was just out of sight when she came down.

"Your husband has just gone up."

"Then I'll go right up, as he'll wait for me this time."

Down came her husband a second afterward.

"Did my wife come down again?"

"Yes, and just went up. She thought you'd wait for her."

After waiting a few moments he became impatient and went up again. She had been waiting for him, and came down.

"Husband just gone up."

"Then I'll wait here, as he will surely come down."

She waited a few moments and then hurried up again just as he came down.

"Wife here?"

"Just gone up!"

"Well I'm going home and you tell her——" He paused, turned around and went up again. Down she came.

"Did he come down?"

"Yes, and he's gone up again as mad as a hornet."

"Then I had better go right up."

Up she went and down he came.

"Just gone up."

"Well, I'll be hanged if I'm going up again. No, sir! I've seen many ups and downs in my time, but this is the limit. I'm going to sit right here and wait if she never comes down!"

When they closed the building for the night, he was still sitting down-stairs, and she, equally determined, was waiting up-stairs, while the elevator man remarked:

"Well, I hope dey'll meet in heav'n!"

THE CROOKED MOUTH FAMILY
ANONYMOUS

In a locality not far removed from the city's busy hum, there lived a family noted for certain remarkable peculiarities of facial distortion. In the father the lower jaw protruded; in the mother it receded so that the upper jaw overhung it like a canopy; the daughter had her face drawn to the left side, while the son had his drawn to the right, and in addition to this deformity stammered most dreadfully. While he attempted to talk his face assumed an expression equally grotesque as the caricatures in a yellow journal.

The father kept a store and one day a man entered whose face, strangely enough, was drawn strongly to the right side. Addressing the daughter, who was standing back of the counter, he said, "I want a pound of tea," his words coming from the corner of his mouth.

"What are you making fun of me for?" replied the girl, her face drawn in the opposite direction.

"I ain't making fun of you. Can't help it. I was born this way."

The young lady, however, was not satisfied that the stranger was telling the truth, so, stepping to the door she called to her father, "Pa, there's a man down here making fun of me."

The father put in an appearance and demanded of the customer why he had made fun of his daughter.

"I didn't make fun of her."

"Yes you did," said the girl.

"I s-s-saw y-y-you," stammered the brother, from out the corner of his twisted face.

"I tell you I didn't. I was born this way. Can't talk any other."

"Well," said the old man, "you would make a good match and you ought to marry each other."

This proposition meeting with a favorable consideration, the two were made one.

The entire family went on the wedding tour, and one night they spent at a country inn where candles were used for purposes of illumination. Picking up a candle the groom attempted to blow it out, but he nearly exhausted himself in the effort without accomplishing his purpose. The bride came to his rescue and blew, and blew, and blew, but with no better result. Papa appearing upon the scene, said, "Let me have it. I'll show you how to do it," and he went to work with a noise that sounded like the exhaust of a high-pressure engine, but the candle stubbornly refused to go out. The mother, hearing the racket, then came upon the scene, and learning of their quandary, put the candle on her head and blew upward but the flame merely flickered as tho fanned by a gentle zephyr. Just then they saw the watchman passing by, so, in their extremity, they called him to their aid and he promptly blew out the candle because he had a straight mouth.

"IMPH-M"
ANONYMOUS

THE USUAL WAY
ANONYMOUS

NOTHING SUITED HIM
ANONYMOUS

A LITTLE FELLER
ANONYMOUS

ROBIN TAMSON'S SMIDDY
BY ALEXANDER RODGER

A BIG MISTAKE
ANONYMOUS

Recently our church has had a new minister. He is a nice, good, sociable man; but having come from a distant State, of course he was totally unacquainted with our people.

Therefore, it happened that during his pastoral calls he made several ludicrous blunders.

The other evening he called upon Mrs. Hadden. She had just lost her husband, and naturally supposed that his visit was relative to the sad occurrence. So, after a few commonplaces had been exchanged, she was not at all surprized to hear him remark:

"It was a sad bereavement, was it not?"

"Yes," faltered the widow.

"Totally unexpected?"

"Oh, yes; I never dreamed of it."

"He died in the barn, I suppose?"

"Oh, no; in the house."

"Ah—well, I suppose you must have thought a great deal of him."

"Of course, sir,"—this with a vim.

The minister looked rather surprized, but continued:

"Blind staggers was the disease, I believe?"

"No, sir," snapped the widow, "apoplexy."

"Indeed; you must have fed him too much."

"He was always capable of feeding himself, sir."

"Very intelligent he must have been. Died hard, didn't he?"

"He did."

"You had to hit him on the head with an ax to put him out of misery, I was told."

"Whoever told you so did not speak the truth. James died naturally."

"Yes," repeated the minister, in a slightly perplexed tone, "he kicked the side of the barn down in his last agonies, did he not?"

"No, sir, he didn't."

"Well, I have been misinformed, I suppose. How old was he?"

"Thirty-five."

"Then he did not do much active work. Perhaps you are better without him, for you can easily supply his place with another."

"Never, sir—never will I see one as good as he."

"Oh, yes, you will. He had the heaves bad, you know."

"Nothing of the kind!"

"Why, I recollect I saw him, one day, passing along the road, and I distinctly recollect that he had the heaves, and walked as if he had the string-halt."

"He could never have had the string-halt, for he had a cork leg!"

"A cork leg!—remarkable. But really, now, didn't he have a dangerous trick of suddenly stopping and kicking a wagon all to pieces?"

"Never; he was not a madman, sir!"

"Probably not. But there were some good points about him."

"I should think so!"

"The way in which he carried his ears, for example."

"Nobody else ever noticed that particular merit; he was warm-hearted, generous and frank!"

"Good qualities. How long did it take him to go a mile?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"Not much of a goer. Wasn't his hair apt to fly?"

"He didn't have any hair. He was bald-headed."

"Quite a curiosity?"

"No, sir; no more of a curiosity than you are."

"Did you use the whip much on him?"

"Never, sir."

"Went right along without it, eh?"

"Yes!"

"He must have been a very good sort of a brute!"

"The idea of you coming here and insulting me!" she sobbed. "If my husband had lived you wouldn't have done it. Your remarks in reference to that poor, dead man have been a series of insults. I won't stand it."

He colored and looked dumbfounded.

"Are you not Mrs. Blinkers, and has not your old gray horse died?"

"I never owned a h-horse, but my husband died a week ago!"

Ten minutes later the minister came out of that house with the reddest face ever seen on mortal man.

"And to think," he groaned, as he strode home, "that I was talking horse to that woman all the time, and she was talking husband."

LORD DUNDREARY'S LETTER
ANONYMOUS

(He enters holding a letter in his hand and a monocle in his eye.) I wonder who w-w-wote me this letter? I thuppose the b-b-best way to f-f-find out ith to open it and thee. (Opens letter.) Thome lun-lunatic hath w-w-witten me this letter. He hath w-w-witten it upthide down. I w-w-wonder if he th-thought I wath going to w-w-wead it thanding on my head. Oh, yeth, I thee; I had it t-t-turned upthide down.

"Amewica." Who do I know in Amewica? I am glad he hath g-g-given me hith addwess anyhow. Oh, yeth, I thee, it ith from Tham. I alwaths know Tham's handwiting when I thee hith name at the b-b-bottom of it.

"My dear bwother." Tham alwaths called me bwother, becauthe we never had any thisters. When we were boyths, we were ladths together—both of us. They used to g-g-get off a pwoverb when they thaw uth com-com-coming down the stweet. It iths awfully good, if I could only think of it. Iths—it iths the early bir-bir-bird—iths the early bir-bir-bird that knowths iths own f-f-father. What nonthense that iths! How co-co-could a b-b-bird know iths own father? Iths a withe child—iths a withe child—iths a wise child that geths the worm. T-t-that's not wite. Wat nonthense that iths! No pa-pa-pawent would allow hiths child to ga-ga-gather worms. Iths a wyme. Fish of-of-of a feather,—fish of a f-f-feather,—now what nonthense that iths! Fish don't have feathers. Iths a b-b-bird—iths b-b-birds of a feather,—b-b-birds of a feather—flock together. B-b-birds of a f-f-feather! Just as if a who-who-whole flock of b-b-birds had only one f-f-feather. They'd all catch cold. Only one b-b-bird could have that f-f-feather, and he'd fly sidewithse. What con-confounded nonthense that iths! Flock to-to-together! Of courthse th-th-they'd flock together. Who ever heard of a b-b-bird being such a f-f-fool as to g-g-go into a corner and flock by himself? That's one of those things no fellow can find out.

"I wote you a letter thome time ago——" Thath's a lie; he d-d-didn't w-w-wite me a letter. If he had witten me a letter he would have posted it, and I would have g-g-got it; so, of courthse, he didn't post it, and then he didn't wite it. Thath's easy. Oh, yeths, I thee: "but I dwopped it into the poth-potht-office without putting any name on it." I wonder who the d-d-dickens got that letter. I w-w-wonder if the poth-pothman iths gwoin' awound asking for a fellow without any name. I wonder if there iths such a fellow, a fellow without any name? If there iths any fellow without any name, how doeths he know who he iths himself? I-I-I wonder if thuch a fellow could get mawaid. How could he ask a girl to take hiths name if he h-h-had no name? That's one of those things no fellow can find out.

"I have just made a startling dithcovery." Tham's alwaths d-d-doing thomthing. "I have dithcovered that my mother iths—that m-m-my mother iths not my m-m-mother; that a—the old nurthe iths my m-m-mother, and that you are not my b-b-bwother, and a—that-that-that I was changthed at my birth." How ca-ca-can a fellow be changthed at hith b-b-birth? If he hiths not himthelf, who iths he? If Tham's m-m-mother iths not hiths m-m-mother, and the old nurthe iths hith m-m-mother, and Tham iths not my b-b-bwother, then who the dickens am I? Stope a minute. (Points to forefinger of left hand.) That's Tham's m-m-mother, and that's Tham's nurthe (pointing to thumb of left hand). Tham's nurthe ith only half the size of hith m-m-mother. Well, that's my m-m-mother (pointing to second finger of left hand). I can't get my m-m-mother to stand up! (All the fingers spring up.) Hello, there's a lot of other fellows' m-m-mothers. Well, as far as I can make out, Tham hath left me no m-m-mother at all! That's one of those things no fellow can find out.

"I have just purchathed an ethstate som-som-somewhere——" Dothn't the idiot know wh-wh-where he hath bought it? Oh, yeth: "on the banks of the M-M-M-Mith-ith-ippi." Who iths Mit-this Thippi? I g-g-gueth iths Tham's m-m-mother-in-law. Tham's got mawaid. He thayths he felt awfully ner-ner-nervouths. S-s-speaking of m-m-mother-in-lawths, I had a fwiend who had a m-m-mother-in-law, and he didn't like her very well; and she felt the thame way toward him; and they went away on a steamer acwoths the ocean, and they got shipwecked, catht away on a waft, and they floated awound in the water, living on thuch things ath they could pick up—such ath thardines, ice-cweam, owanges, and other canned goods that were floating awound. When that was all gone, everybody ate everybody else. F-f-finally only himthelf and hiths m-m-mother-in-law waths left, and they played a game of c-c-checkers to thee who thould be eaten up—himthelf or hith m-m-mother-in-law. He w-w-won! He thays that wath the only time that he weally cared for his mother-in-law!

Oh, herthe a pothscript. "By the way, what do you think of the f-f-following widdle?" One of Tham's widdles. "If fourteen dogs with three legs each catch forty-eight rabbits with seventy-six legs in twenty-five minutes, how many legs must twenty-four rabbits have to get away from ninety-three dogs with two legs each in half an hour!" That's one of those things no fellow can find out.

SLANG PHRASES
ANONYMOUS

It is not strange that children misunderstand our slang phrases. Not long ago a gentleman about to go abroad, made the round of the steamship. When he came back he walked up to the captain and said: "Captain, what has become of the old steward? I do not see anything of him this trip."

"The old steward,—hm,—the old steward, well, he got too big for his breeches, and we fired him."

Now it happened that a little girl stood by and overheard the conversation, and not long after a second gentleman made the round of the ship, and coming up to a fellow traveler said:

"John, we do not see anything of the old steward this trip; what do you suppose has become of him?"

"I do not know, I am sure."

"I do," said a small voice.

They looked around and saw a little girl peeping out from a cabin door.

"Well, well, my little friend, could you tell us what has become of the old steward?"

"I don't like to say."

"Oh, that's a nice little girl, I am sure; was he discharged?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was the matter? What was the matter?"

"His pants were too short."

THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK AGENT
ANONYMOUS

A book agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant, living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book entitled "The Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then taking it under his arm he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city.

Mr. Watson had not been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning.

When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said: "Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope."

"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."

"Ah, and who was she?"

"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman—a book agent."

"A what?"

"A book agent, and, to get rid of his importuning, I bought his book, the 'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is."

"I don't want to see it."

"Why, husband?"

"Because that rascally book agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book—two copies of the 'Early Christian Martyrs,' and——"

"But, husband, we can——"

"No, we can't, either! The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow——"

"Why, there he goes to the depot now!" said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book agent making for the train.

"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not drest. I've taken off my boots, and——"

Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.

"Here, Stevens! You're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!"

"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.

Mr. Stevens reached the train as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!"

"Book agent!" he yelled, as the book agent stept on the train. "Book agent! hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."

"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book agent. "Oh, I know what he wants; he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."

"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it to him. How much is it?"

"Two dollars for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book agent as he reached for the money and passed the book out the car-window.

Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.

"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens; "just got it and that's all."

"Got what?"

"Got the book—'Early Christian Martyrs,' and paid——"

"By-the-great-guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hand to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.

THE COON'S LULLABY
ANONYMOUS

(After the last chorus the speaker should softly hum the tune again, with an occasional "Sh!" to the audience, and with pantomime of putting the baby in the cradle, putting it to sleep, and softly tiptoeing out.)

PARODY ON BARBARA FRIETCHIE
ANONYMOUS

BEFORE AND AFTER
BY CHARLES T. GRILLEY

Before

After

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK
ANONYMOUS

MR. POTTS' STORY
BY MAX ADELER

While I was over at Jersey City, the other day, I called on the Potts. Mr. Potts is liable to indulge in extravagance in his conversation, and as Mrs. Potts is an extremely conscientious woman where matters of fact are concerned, she's obliged to keep her eye on him. Potts was telling me about an incident that occurred in the town a few days before, and this is the way he related it:

Potts.—"You see old Bradley over here is perfectly crazy on the subject of gases, and the atmosphere, and such things—absolutely wild; and one day he was disputing with Green about how high up in the air life could be sustained, and Bradley said an animal could live about forty million miles above the earth, if——"

Mrs. Potts.—"Not forty millions, my dear; only forty miles, he said."

P.—"Forty, was it? Thank you. Well sir, old Green, you know, said that was ridiculous; and he said he'd bet Bradley a couple of hundred thousand dollars that life couldn't be sustained half that way up, and so——"

Mrs. P.—"William, you are wrong; he offered to bet only fifty dollars."

P.—"Well, anyhow, Bradley took him up quicker'n a wink, and they agreed to send up a cat in a balloon to decide the bet. So what does Bradley do but buy a balloon about twice as big as our barn, and begin to——"

Mrs P.—"It was only about ten feet in diameter, Mr. Adeler; William forgets."

P.—"Begin to inflate her. When she was filled, it took eighty men to hold her, and——"

Mrs. P.—"Eighty men, Mr. Potts? Why, you know Mr. Bradley held the balloon himself."

P.—"He did, did he? Oh, very well; what's the odds? And when everything was ready, they brought out Bradley's tom-cat, and put it in the basket, and tied it in so that it couldn't jump, you know. There were about one hundred thousand people looking on, and, when they let go, you never heard such a——"

Mrs. P.—"There were not more than two hundred people there. I counted them myself."

P.—"Oh, don't bother me! I say you never heard such a yell, as the balloon went scooting up into the sky, pretty near out of sight. Bradley said she went up about one thousand miles, and—now don't interrupt me, Henrietta; I know what the man said—and that cat, mind you, a-howling like a hundred fog-horns, so's you could a' heard her from here to Peru. Well, sir, when she was up so's she looked as small as a pin-head, something or other burst. I dunno how it was, but pretty soon down came that balloon a-flickering toward the earth at the rate of fifty miles a minute, and old——"

Mrs. P.—"Mr. Potts, you know that the balloon came down as gently as——"

P.—"Oh, do hush up! Women don't know anything about such things. And old Bradley, he had a kind of a registering thermometer fixt in the balloon along with that cat. Some sort of a patent machine; cost thousands of dollars, and he was expecting to examine it; and Green had an idea he'd lift out a dead cat and scoop in the stakes. When all of a sudden, as she came pelting down, a tornado struck her—now, Henrietta, what in the thunder are you staring at me in that way for? It was a tornado—a regular cyclone—and it struck her and jammed her against the lightning-rod on the Baptist Church steeple, and there she stuck—stuck on that spire, about eight hundred feet up in the air."

Mrs. P.—"You may get just as mad as you like, but I am positively certain that steeple's not an inch over ninety-five feet."

P.—"Henrietta, I wish to gracious you'd go up-stairs and look after the children. Well, about half a minute after she struck out stept that tom-cat on to the weathercock. It made Green sick. And just then the hurricane reached the weathercock, and it began to revolve six hundred or seven hundred times a minute, the cat howling until you couldn't hear yourself speak—now, Henrietta, you've had your put; you keep quiet. That cat stood on that weathercock about two months——"

Mrs. P.—"Mr. Potts, that's an awful story; it only happened last Tuesday."

P. (confidentially)—"Never mind her. And on Sunday the way that cat carried on and yowled, with its tail pointing due east, was so awful that they couldn't have church. And Sunday afternoon the preacher told Bradley if he didn't get that cat down he'd sue him for a million dollars damages. So Bradley got a gun, and shot at the cat fourteen hundred times—now, you didn't count 'em, Henrietta, and I did—and he banged the top of the steeple all to splinters, and at last fetched down the cat, shot to rags, and in her stomach he found the thermometer. She'd ate it on her way up, and it stood at eleven hundred degrees, so old——"

Mrs. P.—"No thermometer ever stood at such a figure as that."

P. (indignantly)—"Oh, well, if you think you can tell the story better than I can, why don't you tell it? You're enough to worry the life out of a man."

Then Potts slammed the door and went out, and I left. I don't know whether Bradley got the stakes or not.

AT FIVE O'CLOCK TEA
BY MORRIS WADE

"So good of you to come!"

"Ah, thanks."

"So good of you to come!"

"As if I could get along without you! The obligation is all on my side."

"How sweet of you to say so!"

"Now I want you to meet Mrs. Slambang. Mrs. Slambang, let me present to you my deah friend, Mrs. Twiddle-twaddle."

"So glad to know you, Mrs. Slambang! I have so often heard deah Mrs. Sweet speak of you that I feel quite as if I knew you. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Chawming!"

"What a lovely wintah we are having."

"Chawming! So very, very gay, isn't it?"

"Oh, very, very gay! Haven't I met you at Mrs. Titters' teas?"

"I daresay you have. Isn't she a deah?"

"Oh, I am extravagantly fond of her!"

"I am, too. So clevah!"

"Of course you go to the opera?"

"Oh, I couldn't exist without it. Oh, Melba! Melba!"

"And Nordica! I rave over them all!"

"I fairly CRY over them. And, do you know, I have a friend who does not care in the least for them. She isn't a bit musical."

"Oh, how sad! I would die if I did not——Who is the tall lady in black over by the piano?"

"I'm sure I do not know. What exquisite lace on her gown! Do you know that I just simply rave over beautiful lace!"

"Really?"

"Yes, indeed! I care more for it than for jewels, because it——Do you know the tall, fine-looking man who has just come in?"

"I'm sure I have seen him somewhere, and yet I can not——Yes, thank you, I think I will have a cup of tea. How lovely the dining-room looks!"

"Lovely!"

"Mrs. Sweet has such exquisite taste!"

"EXQUISITE! I often say——How do you do, my deah? So glad to see you!"

"Thanks! So glad to meet YOU!"

"So good of you to say so! Quite well, deah?"

"Oh, vulgarly so. I really must say good-by to dear Mrs. Sweet and go. I must look in at Mrs. Shoddy's for a few minutes."

"So must I. We'll go together."

"HOW LOVELY! Good-by, deah Mrs. Sweet. Have had such a chawming time!"

"Must you go so soon?"

"Yes, really! Such a lovely time!"

"So glad! But it is quite naughty of you to go so soon. So glad you came!"

"By-by, deah."

"By-by. You will come to see me soon?"

"Yes, indeed."

"You MUST. By-by!"

"By-by!"

And as she gathers up her trailing skirts to walk down the steps, she says: "Thank goodness, that's over!"

Reprinted from Lippincott's Magazine.

KEEP A-GOIN'!
BY FRANK L. STANTON

A LOVER'S QUARREL
BY CYNTHIA COLES

"O Kitty, you are so sweet, and I do love you so. Tell me you love me, dearie."

"I do love you, Dick; why, I never supposed I could love anybody so much."

"O little girl, I only wished you loved me half as much as I love you."

"Half as much! Why, dear, I love you more than you love me—a great deal more——"

"Now, don't be silly, pet. It would be impossible for you to love me as much as I love you. Of course, I love you best."

"Of course you don't! You love me, I know, but not as much as I love you."

"Now, Kitty, be reasonable."

"I will if you'll admit that I do love you best."

"How can I admit what isn't true?"

"Well, you might say it was so just to please me."

"Oh, no, dear, I can't do that."

"Because you don't love me enough!"

"Oh, the idea!"

"If you did love me the best, you'd say anything I asked you to, whether it was true or not."

"Would you do that?"

"Of course I would."

"All right, then you admit that I love you best, because I ask you to do so!"

"O Dick, how horrid you are! How can you be so cruel to me?"

"There, there, don't cry. I'll admit that you love me best, but I only admit it because you ask me to."

"Then that's all right."

"But, don't you see, Kitty, when I say that because you ask me to, and you won't say it when I ask you to, that proves I love you best after all."

"There you go on again! I do think you're too mean for anything!"

"Well, never mind, sweetheart, let's kiss and be friends. You do love me best I'm sure."

"Oh, no, I don't, Dick. Oh, you are so sweet. You love me best, darling."

"Oh, no, I don't, love. You love me best!"

"No, my Dick, you love me best——"

CASEY AT THE BAT
BY PHINEAS THAYER

FAMILIAR LINES
ANONYMOUS

(Arranged so that the little ones can always remember them)

A FRIENDLY GAME OF CHECKERS
ANONYMOUS

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Italics, as he drew on his slippers and settled himself for the evening, "if you will get the checker-board, I'll play you a game—you're learning so rapidly that it's really a pleasure to try quits with you."

Mrs. Italics giggled with delight, kissed her husband on the top of the head and fluttered away to find the board and checkers. After she had found them, she plumped herself down in a rocking-chair about a foot and a half lower than his easy-chair and arranged the apparatus at an angle of fifty degrees, whereupon Mr. Italics said:

"I think you misapprehend my suggestion. I didn't propose to go sliding down hill at this season of the year, neither do I intend to shoot the chutes. My idea was a game of checkers and if you think those men are going to stand around on a board tipped up on one end and wait to be moved, you are not familiar with their habits."

"Perhaps I had better put a book under it; or if you could lower your knees a little it would come even."

"Oh, that's your idea, is it? My knees weren't constructed with special regard to playing checkers. They were put where they are and fastened and they won't run up and down like a flag. Do you think I'm the india-rubber man from the circus, or the cork-legged man from Oskoloosa? If you can't hold up your side of the board, we won't play."

"Now, dear, it's all right. Let me see, is it your move, or mine?"

"What are you trying to play? Do you think this is a game of baseball? Don't you know you've got to move cattecornered? 'Taint your move anyway. Put that back. There. Now I'll move there."

"Oh, I know you're going to jump me and take my man," said Mrs. Italics, picking up the checker she had moved before and putting it in her mouth. "If I put it here, you'll——"

"SWALLOW IT, why don't you? If you don't want it taken, why don't you masticate it? Can't you leave the thing alone until you get ready to move? Put it down before it chokes you."

"There, dear (swallowing it), I've put it down, but it hurt my throat."

"What in thunder do you mean by eating up my set of checkers. When I said 'put it down' I meant put it back on the board. Will you please play this game instead of masticating it."

"If I put this man there, you'll jump it."

"Just watch and see."

"Now, I'll put this man there,—no,—perhaps I had better move here,—or I think I'll——"

"Going to move in six places at once? Think this is the first of May and that you're looking for a new flat? 'Taint your move anyway. Now will you please hold the board straight? D'ye think this is a washboard? Well it isn't and it isn't a teeter-board either. Now, I'll move into your king row. Ha! ha!"

"Then do I jump these two men and get a king? Of course, I do. Crown me! I've got the first king!"

"No, you haven't. I didn't mean that move. If you can't play checkers without cackling like a hen you'd better stop. I'll take back that move. Now, so. Now you can move."

"Over here."

"Certainly. That's splendid. Now I'll take these two men."

"I didn't see that, I'd rather put it here."

"Too late now. You can't take back a move in this game. You should study your moves first."

"Well, if I jump here I get another king."

"What do you want to tumble them all over for? Haven't you got any sense scarcely? You make more fuss over a measly king than most women over a mouse. Don't you know it's my move? Give me back those men. Can't you hold the board straight? What's that? Oh, of course, you know. You know it all. All you want is a pair of hinges and painted sides to be a checker-box. If ever I want to play with some good player I'll put the coal-scuttle on your head and move you around for a king. There goes the whole business! Now, are you satisfied? Do you wonder a man won't play checkers with a woman? I'll throw the measly things out of the window so that I won't waste any time playing with you again." And Mr. Italics suited the action to the word. But then Mr. Italics was such an odd type.

MODERN ROMANCE
BY HENRY M. BLOSSOM, JR.

From The Smart Set, New York.

LULLABY
BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Reprinted by permission.

THE REASON WHY
BY MARY E. BRADLEY

HOW A BACHELOR SEWS ON A BUTTON
ANONYMOUS

This is a very laughable piece of pantomime. It is well to have a small table and a chair, but everything else is left to the imagination of the audience. The success of the selection depends upon the varied facial expression and other business. It is advisable to first practise with a needle and thread so as to get a correct imitation.

First say to the audience: "Ladies and gentlemen, I shall endeavor to give you an imitation of how a bachelor sews on a button." Then seat yourself and take from the table an imaginary spool of thread. Hold it in your left hand and pull out several lengths with your right hand. Then bite the thread off and put the spool back on the table. Hold the end of the thread in your left hand, then wet the first finger and thumb of your right hand and make the thread into a point. Now start to thread your needle. The thread refuses to find the eye of the needle and there is a lot of laughable business here. Change your position frequently, and at every turn vary the facial expression. Then blow through the eye of the needle. Just as you think you have at last put the thread through, the needle is lost and you look all over for it. After some difficulty you find it on the floor. Then as you seat yourself again you find the thread in a snarl, so you take the spool again and pull off several fresh lengths. Try again to thread the needle and as you get it through the needle's eye, turn it very carefully around and take hold of the thread with your teeth, drawing it through slowly with appropriate facial expression. Now tie a knot in your thread and to make it secure bite it with your teeth. Reach to the table for your imaginary button and place it on the inside of your coat. Begin to sew, with difficulty at first, pulling the thread through at arm's length. At the third stitch prick your finger and jump as if in great pain. The thread gradually gets shorter. As you seem to gain facility you begin to smile. Then wind the thread around the button, make several short stitches, and bite it off with your teeth. Now stand and try to button your coat. You first feel for the button but can not find it. Then you look down at your coat, but there is no button there. You turn the coat over and discover that you have sewed the button on the inside. With a look of anger you pull the button off the coat, throw it violently on the floor, and exit hastily.

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS
ANONYMOUS

Deesa man liva in Italia a gooda longa time ago. He hada a greata heada ever since he was a kidda. Not a bigga heada likea de politicians nowaday—not a swella heada. His fadda keepa de standa in Italia. Sella de peanutta and de banan. Maka plente de mon. Christopher Colum he say, "Fadda, gimma de stamp, I go finda de new world." His fadda he laugh, "Ha! ha!" just so. Den Christopher he say, "Whata you maka fun? I betta you I finda new world." After a long time his fadda say, "You go finda new world, and bringa it over here." Den de olda man he buy him a grip-sack, an' giva him boodle, an' maka him a present of three ships to come over to deesa contra. Well, Christopher Colum he saila an' saila for gooda many day. He don't see any landa. An' he say, "I giva fiva-dollar-bill if I was back in Italia!" Well, he saila, an' he saila, an' vera soon he strika Coney Island. Den dat maka him glad! Very soon he coma to Castle Garden, an' den he walka up Broadway an' he feel very bada. He finda outa dat de Irish gang has gotta possession of New Yorka! He don't lika de Irish, an' de Shamrocka donta lika him. He donta go vera far before a pleasanter mana speaks to him. He say, "How-a-you do, Mista Jones? How a-de folks in Pittaburg?" Christopher Colum he say, "I notta Mista Jones; I reada the papers; I tinka you sella de green goods, ha? You go away, or I broka your jaw!" Den he shaka hees fista deesa way, an' de man he skedaddle. Den he tries to crossa de Broad-a-way, but it fulla de mud an' he canta swim. Very soon he sees a policeman cluba de mana, one, two, three times, an' he feel secka de stom'! Next he meeta de politicians uppa Tammany Hall an' dees wanta him to runna for Alderman. He getta plenty friend. He learna to "settom up" at de bar many times. Next day he hava heada lika deesa!

His fadda writa: "Why you notta bringa back de new world? I like to hava de earth!" Christopher Colum he writa back dat New Yorka is already in de hands of de Shamrocka. Den he goes to Ohio and buys a place an' calla it after himself—Colum. Soon he goa broka an' taka de nexta train home in disgusta, because he reada in de paper dat de Fair in '93 will be holda in Chicago!

THE FLY
ANONYMOUS

The following is told in child dialect. She finds a fly and speaks to it affectionately:

"Poor little fly! Ain't you got anyone to love you? Ain't you got any brothers or any sisters, little fly? Ain't you got any aunts, little fly? Ain't you got anyone to love you? Your mother loves you, little fly. (She slaps her hand and kills the fly.) Go home to your mother!"

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"
BY W. S. GILBERT

I TOL' YER SO
BY JOHN L. HEATON

"YOU GIT UP!"
BY JOE KERR

By permission of G. W. Dillingham Company.

PRESENTATION OF THE TRUMPET
ANONYMOUS

In the days of the old volunteer fire department there existed in this city a certain hose company noted for the bravery of its foreman, whose reckless daring in time of danger, coupled with his pugilistic attainments, had made him a local celebrity.

The members of his company decided to present him with a handsome silver trumpet, as an expression of their regard and appreciation of his pluck, courage and fighting qualities. One of the members was chosen to prepare a fitting speech for the occasion, and after some weeks of labor announced himself as being thoroughly prepared for the task.

In the meantime, the foreman, who was supposed to be in blissful ignorance of all the preparations being made to surprize him, was let into the "secret" through the kindness of one of the boys. He recognized this as his supreme opportunity to display his literary qualifications in the shape of a speech of acceptance. He secured the services of a literary friend to write a glowing oration, replete with metaphors, similes, and sweet-sounding poetry, expressing his "unworthiness of the honor," the "deep gratitude which words failed him to adequately express," etc.

The night in question at last arrived. The building was filled to overflowing. The band played "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and the boys gave three hearty cheers and a "tiger" for the proud foreman.

The chairman advanced to the front, holding the massive trumpet in one hand, while his other hand grasped convulsively at the collar of his shirt.

After staring around the room and giving a few preparatory coughs, he said:

"Mr. Foreman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—a—a—I—a—I——(Looks hard at the floor. Begins again with great determination.) Mr. Foreman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—a—a—I—a—feel—I feel a——(Puts one hand in his pocket and looks very foolish. Begins again, shouting, and looking very angry.) Mr. Foreman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—I—I—I feel a—much a pleas——(Word sticks in his throat. Very angrily, and striding toward the foreman.) Ah! take your trumpet!"

A look of consternation spread over the faces of the boys at the failure of their spokesman, and there were many whisperings of "I told you so!"

It was now the foreman's turn. He drew his hand across his mouth and began as follows:

"Mr. Chairman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: It is—it is—it is—it is with a—with a——(Looks at ceiling, and shifts his position uneasily. Begins over again, with a very confident air.) Mr. Chairman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: It is with—with a—with a—with a—a—a—a—a heart——(Stops, stares wildly at the ceiling, floor and company. Begins over again, very angrily, and with his body in fighting attitude.) Mr. Chairman, and Members of Hose Company Number 10: I—I—I—it is—it is with a heart—with a heart full—-full——(Stops. Very loud and violently.) Ah! give us yer trumpet!"

DON'T USE BIG WORDS
ANONYMOUS

In promulgating your esoteric cogitations, or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity. Let your conversational communications possess a clarified conciseness, a compact comprehensibleness, coalescent consistency, and a concatenated cogency. Eschew all conglomerations of flatulent garrulity, jejune babblement and asinine affectations. Let your extemporaneous descantings and unpremeditated expatiations have intelligibility and veracious vivacity, without rhodomontade or thrasonical bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous prolixity, psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity, and vaniloquent vapidity. Shun double-entendres, prurient jocosity, and pestiferous profanity, obscurant or apparent.

In other words, talk plainly, briefly, naturally, sensibly, truthfully, purely. Keep from "slang"; don't put on airs; say what you mean; mean what you say. And don't use big words!

DER MULE SHTOOD ON DER STEAMBOAD DECK
ANONYMOUS

THE NEW SCHOOL READER
ANONYMOUS

I will now give you a selection from my New School Reader. It is built upon the lines of the school-books in use in the years preceding our early childhood. It is one of the selections that unfortunate boys would render in an heroic attitude, and in stilted, unnatural tones:

"The October sun was shining down upon an avenue of trees, and gilding with its golden splendor the chromatic nose of a solitary horseman, who reigned up his steed at the sight of a small boy with a school-book on his shoulder. 'Where do you live, my fine fellow?' said the stranger, in low, pleasing tones. 'In yonder cottage, near the glen; my widowed mother and her thirteen children dwell with me,' replied the boy, in a rich, mellow voice. 'And is your father dead?' asked the stranger with a rising inflection. 'Extremely so,' murmured the lad, 'and that is why my mother is a widow.' 'And how does your mother gain a livelihood?' asked the horseman, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper. 'I support the family,' proudly replied George. 'You support the family? Why, what can such a little fellow as you do?' 'I dig wells during the day, and help my mother at night. I have a good education and am able to dig wells almost as well as a man.' 'But you must have to work very hard,' said the stranger, wiping a tear from his eyebrow. 'Indeed I do, sir, and since my little sister Ann got married, and brought her husband home to live with us, I have to work with more assiduity than ever. I am enabled to barely maintain our family in a precarious manner; but, oh, sir, should my other sisters marry, I fear that some of my brothers-in-law would have to suffer.' 'My boy,' asked the solitary horseman, looking at the youth proudly, 'what would you say if I told you your father was not dead?' 'Sir,' replied the boy respectfully, 'I am too polite to tell you what I would say,—besides you are much larger than I am.' 'But, my brave lad,' said the man in low, musical tones, 'do you not recognize your parent on your father's side?—do you not know me, Georgie? O George!' 'I must say,' replied George, 'that you have the advantage of me. While I may have met you before, I can not at this moment place you, sir!' At this the stranger opened his valise and took therefrom a large-sized strawberry mark, which he placed on his right arm. Immediately the boy recognized him as his long-lost parent, and he, drawing the lad to his bosom, ejaculated, 'O my son, my son!' 'But how did you escape, father?' said the boy through his tears, in a voice broken by emotion. 'We were far away at sea,' said the heartbroken man. 'The winds howled and the waves threatened to engulf our frail bark. When everybody was lost, the rest of the crew turned and sprang into the foaming billows and swam several miles. At last I felt my feet touch something hard,—it was Jersey City!'"