Part 10

“Ah mos’ suhtainly does, boss. Why, dat man axed de good Lord fo’ things dat de odder preacher didn’t even know He had!”

* * * * *

For weeks the kindergarten had been deluged with nature verses, and the process of absorption was far advanced. Sufficiently to admit of a little squeezing with results, thought the teacher.

“Now, children,” she said, “I want you each to bring in a little verse that you have made yourselves about the buds, or the trees, or the flowers, or anything that pleases you.”

Various specimens were produced next day, but the gem of the collection was little May Flynn’s. With appropriate gestures she recited:

“See the pretty gold fish swimming in the globe! See the pretty robin singing in the tree! Who teached these two to fly together? Who stucked the fur upon their breasts? ’Twas God. ’Twas God. He done it.”

* * * * *

A story about King Edward is worth repeating. Just before the illness which caused the postponement of the coronation, he was racing down one of the country roads in his motor-car at a speed which was away beyond the legal limit.

“Hi! Hi!” called a policeman. “Stop there, in the name of the law!”

His Majesty is said to have slackened speed and called out: “But I’m the king!”

“Jest you come aht o’ that,” was the reply; “yer the third king wot’s come along this morning.”

* * * * *

In order to play “Rosemary” some years ago, John Drew shaved off his mustache, thereby greatly changing his appearance. Shortly afterward he met Max Beerbohm in the lobby of a London theater, but could not just then recall who the latter was. Mr. Beerbohm’s memory was better.

“Oh, Mr. Drew,” he said, “I’m afraid you don’t know me without your mustache.”

* * * * *

A truly eloquent parson had been preaching for an hour or so on the immortality of the soul.

“I looked at the mountains,” he declaimed, “and could not help thinking, ‘Beautiful as you are, you will be destroyed, while my soul will not.’ I gazed upon the ocean and cried, ‘Mighty as you are you will eventually dry up, but not I.’”

* * * * *

“Now if I don’t git rid o’ dis cold soon,” complained Jimmy, the jockey, “I’ll be a dead one.”

“Did you go to Dr. Goodman, as I told you?” asked his friend.

“Naw! De sign on his door said ’10 to 1’ an’ I wouldn’t monkey wid no long shot like dat.”

* * * * *

Herbert S. Stone, the publisher, described at a dinner in Washington the amusing methods of a newspaper writer who used to write articles at a set rate a column.

He was once commissioned to do a serial story for a Chicago paper. The story, as it proceeded from week to week, was interesting, but it contained many passages like the following:

“Did you hear him?”

“I did.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Where?”

“By the well.”

“When?”

“To-day.”

“Then he lives?”

“He does.”

“Ah.”

The editor, sending for the man, said:

“Hereafter we will pay you by the letters in your serial. We will pay you so much a thousand letters.”

The young man, looking crestfallen, went away, but in the very next instalment of his story he introduced a character who stuttered, and all through the chapter were scattered passages like this:

“B-b-b-b-believe me, s-s-s-sir, I am n-n-not g-g-g-guilty. M-m-m-my m-m-m-mother c-c-c-committed this c-c-c-crime.”

* * * * *

A man with a soft, low voice had just completed his purchases in a department store of the City of Churches.

“What is the name?” asked the clerk.

“Jepson,” replied the man.

“Chipson?”

“No, Jepson.”

“Oh, yes, Jefferson.”

“No, Jepson; J-e-p-s-o-n.”

“Jepson?”

“That’s it. You have it. Sixteen eighty-two--”

“Your first name, initial, please.”

“Oh, K.”

“O. K. Jepson.”

“Excuse me, it isn’t O. K. You did not understand me. I said ‘Oh.’”

“O. Jepson.”

“No; rub out the O and let the K stand.”

The clerk looked annoyed. “Will you please give me your initials again?”

“I said K.”

“I beg your pardon, you said O. K. Perhaps you had better write it yourself.”

“I said ‘Oh’--”

“Just now you said K.”

“Allow me to finish what I started to say. I said ‘Oh,’ because I did not understand what you were asking me. I did not mean that it was my initial. My name is Kirby Jepson.”

“Oh!”

“No, not O., but K.,” said the man. “Give me the pencil, and I’ll write it down for you myself. There, I guess it’s O. K. now.”

* * * * *

The furnishing of the new house had gone on vociferously. All the family told stories of the beautiful and rare articles picked up at auctions, usually at such bargains as only amateurs in such matters are able to find. There was naturally much curiosity to see how the house looked. The first visitor who had the opportunity to inspect it was eagerly questioned by her friends.

“I can’t describe it myself,” she explained. “All I can say is that auctions speak louder than words.”

* * * * *

When Frank R. Stockton started out with his Rudder Grange experiences he undertook to keep chickens. One old motherly Plymouth Rock brought out a brood late in the fall, and Stockton named each of the chicks after some literary friend, among the rest Mary Mapes Dodge. Mrs. Dodge was visiting the farm some time later, and, happening to think of her namesake, she said: “By the way, Frank, how does little Mary Mapes Dodge get along?” “The funny thing about little Mary Mapes Dodge,” said he, “is, she turns out to be Thomas Bailey Aldrich.”

* * * * *

A short time ago a lady with an only child (aged seven) was entertaining the bishop of the diocese to afternoon tea. The small girl was allowed to come to tea, but her mother had instilled into her mind the necessity of speaking reverently to the bishop. Tea came and with it the pangs of hunger, but at the same time her mother’s warning, “speak reverently,” was always before her. After sitting for about ten minutes gazing at the good things and repeating over and over again, “speak reverently,” she exclaimed, “For God’s sake pass me the bread and butter.”

* * * * *

Hiram Hardscrabble and his load of hay, two horses, and a perfectly good wagon were pitched so high and so far by a reckless railroad train that when they came down they weren’t--any of ’em--good for much. The local Congressman took the case, and after some months advised Hiram to accept the railroad company’s offer of lifelong employment at $15 a week. Hiram accepted. They put him out as a flagman on a crossing near his native village.

Cassidy, the section boss, stopped his handcar before the flag-shanty, and after a searching look at Hiram advised as follows:

“So you’re the new flagman, are ye? And ye’ve niver railroaded before. No harm. We’ll make a man iv ye. See, now, there’s yer red flag and yer green flag and yer white flag, and yer thrain schedule within on the wall. All ye have to do is dhrop the gates befoor the thrains do come, so that they’ll have a clear thrack. D’ye mind, now?

“But there’s wan thing above all others--th’ Impire Shtate Express! Putt yer gates down two minyits before she comes and keep them down till she’s pasht. Mind now, she must niver be late on this section. Niver wan minyit late. I won’t sthand f’r it. Remimber--th’ Impire Shtate Express. She must niver be late here.”

Hiram promised. At 2 P.M., when the Empire State Express was due in two minutes, he dropped the crossing gates and stood by with the white flag to wave her along. Three minutes passed, four, five--and still no train. As a matter of fact, she had lost half an hour at an open draw on the Harlem River in the morning, and was laboring mightily to regain lost time in spite of her fast schedule.

Seven minutes late, and then Hiram heard a wild shriek a mile away and saw the express coming. He darted into the shanty, grabbed a red flag, and leaped out upon the track, waving it furiously. The engineer shut off, threw over the reverse lever, gave her sand and the air; and the mighty train stopped short, in a whirl of sand, cinders, and sparks, brakes creaking and passengers pitchpoling everywhere.

“What’s the matter now?” roared the engineer, thrusting half his body out of the cab and glaring down at Hiram.

“Be yeou th’ ingineer?” asked the flagman, peering at him with suspicion.

“Yes, yes! Whad-do-you want?”

“I want t’ know whut’s made ye so goldinged late? Cassidy says he wun’t stand f’r it.”

* * * * *

During a match at St. Andrews, Scotland, a rustic was struck in the eye accidentally by a golf ball. Running up to his assailant, he yelled:

“This’ll cost ye five pounds--five pounds!”

“But I called out ‘fore’ as loudly as I could,” explained the golfer.

“Did ye, sir?” replied the troubled one, much appeased. “Weel, I didna hear; I’ll take fower.”

* * * * *

Mark Twain observed once at a public dinner that he had written a friendly letter to Queen Victoria protesting against a tax being levied in England on his head, on the ground that it was a gas-works. “I don’t know you,” he wrote, “but I’ve met your son. He was at the head of a procession in the Strand, and I was on a ’bus.” Years afterward he met the King at Homburg, and they had a long talk. At parting the King said: “I am glad to have met you again.” That last word troubled Mark, who asked whether the King had not mistaken him for some one else. The reply--“Why, don’t you remember meeting me in the Strand when I was at the head of a procession and you were on a ’bus?” revealed the strength of Royal memories.

* * * * *

An Irishman and an Englishman were recounting feats of physical prowess. The Englishman, by way of showing his strength, said that he was accustomed to swim across the Thames three times before breakfast every morning.

“Well,” said the Irishman, “that may be all right, but it do seem to me that your clothes would be on the wrong side of the river all the time.”

* * * * *

An excess luggage porter at a large railway station said to a “commercial,” “I see your luggage is overweight, sir.” “Ah! your visionary powers are far too acute for me, my friend.” “What did you say, sir?” “I say you can see too well for me.” “Ah! to be sure, sir. I take you----” “Could you see as well now if you had sixpence over one eye?” “Well, I don’t know, sir, but I’m darned well sure I couldn’t see at all if I’d another over t’other one.”

* * * * *

Henry James, the American novelist, lives at Rye, one of the Cinque Ports, but recently he left Rye for a time and took a house in the country near the estate of a millionaire jam manufacturer, retired. This man, having married an earl’s daughter, was ashamed of the trade whereby he had piled up his fortune.

The jam manufacturer one day wrote Mr. James an impudent letter, vowing that it was outrageous the way the James servants were trespassing on his grounds. Mr. James wrote back:

“_Dear Sir_: I am very sorry to hear that my servants have been poaching on your preserves.

“P.S.--You’ll excuse my mentioning your preserves, won’t you?”

* * * * *

An Omaha man was taking an automobile trip through the ranching section of the State, and to save time took a short cut over a bad stretch of road, full of jolts and bumps. During the afternoon his machine broke down, and, as the monkey wrench was missing from his tool kit, he started on foot for the nearest ranch house to borrow one. On arriving he found the farmer repairing his fence.

“Have you a monkey wrench about here that I can use?” he asked.

“Ay tank not,” replied the farmer. “Yonson in nax saction ha kape cattle ranch, Svenson down har ha kape sheep ranch. Faller bane big fool to make monkey ranch in dese place.”

* * * * *

Andrew Carnegie is fond of the Scots’ national instrument, the bagpipe, and when he is at home at Skibo Castle usually has his pet piper to play for him at dinner. Particularly is the musician in attendance when the great philanthropist has guests.

On one occasion a big company of men sat down to table, and the piper pranced up and down the room as he played.

The whole thing was new to a French literary man, who politely asked the guest on his right, “Why does he walk up and down when he does this thing? Does it add to the volume of the sound, or does it make a cadence?”

“No,” said the other, “I don’t think it’s that. I fancy it’s to prevent the listeners getting his range with a knife or a water bottle.”

* * * * *

Some time ago Professor Brander Matthews went to dine at a certain dramatic club in New York. Going to the club letter box he picked up and perused a letter which seemed to be addressed to him. It was a request from a tailor for the settlement of his little bill. As the man’s name was quite strange to him he made a careful examination, and finding that he had been mistaken, put the missive back into its place. Immediately afterward he saw the real owner take possession of it, walk into the reading-room, read it carefully, and tear it into shreds. Then, assured of an audience, the man whose clothes were still unpaid for, assumed the weary smile of an accomplished ladykiller and remarked audibly, “Poor, silly, little girl!”

* * * * *

A street-car “masher” tried in every way to attract the attention of the pretty young girl opposite him. Just as he had about given up, the girl, entirely unconscious of what had been going on, happened to glance in his direction. The “masher” immediately took fresh courage.

“It’s cold out to-day, isn’t it?” he ventured.

The girl smiled and nodded assent, but had nothing to say.

“My name is Specknoodle,” he volunteered.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said sympathetically, as she left the car.

* * * * *

A Jew crossing the Brooklyn Bridge met a friend who said, “Abe, I’ll bet you ten dollars that I can tell you exactly what you’re thinking about.”

“Vell,” agreed Abe, producing a greasy bill, “I’ll haf to take dot bet. Put up your money.”

The friend produced two fives. “Abe,” he said, “you are thinking of going over to Brooklyn, buying a small stock of goods, renting a small store, taking out all the fire-insurance that you can possibly get, and then burning out. Do I win my bet?”

“Vell,” replied Abe, “you don’t egsactly vin, but the idea is worth de money. Take id.”

* * * * *

Andrew Carnegie tells a good story illustrating the canniness of the Scot.

An Irish friend had insisted that a Scotchman should stay at his house, instead of at a hotel, and kept him there for a month, playing the host in detail, even to treating him to sundry visits to the theater, paying the cab fares and the rest. When the visitor was returning home, the Irishman saw him to the station, and they went together to have a last cigar.

“Now, look here,” said the Scot, “I’ll hae nae mair o’ this. Here ye’ve been keepin’ me at your hoose for a month, an’ payin’ for a’ the amusements and cabs and so on--I tell you I’ll stan’ nae mair o’ it! We’ll just hae a toss for this one!”

* * * * *

“Uncle Joe” Cannon has a way of speaking his mind that is sometimes embarrassing to others. On one occasion an inexperienced young fellow was called upon to make a speech at a banquet at which Speaker Cannon was also present.

“Gentlemen,” began the young fellow, “my opinion is that the generality of mankind in general is disposed to take advantage of the generality of ----”

“Sit down, son,” interrupted “Uncle Joe.” “You are coming out of the same hole you went in at.”

* * * * *

It is a well-established fact that the average school-teacher experiences a great deal of difficulty when she attempts to enforce the clear pronunciation of the terminal “g” of each present participle.

“Robert,” said the teacher of one of the lower classes during the progress of a reading exercise, “please read the first sentence.”

A diminutive lad rose to his feet and, amid a series of labored gasps, breathed forth the following:

“See the horse runnin’.”

“Don’t forget the ‘g,’ Robert,” admonished the teacher.

“Gee! See the horse runnin’.”

* * * * *

Miss Jeannette Gilder was one of the ardent enthusiasts at the début of Tetrazzini. After the first act she rushed to the back of the house to greet one of her friends. “Don’t you think she is a wonder?” she asked excitedly.

“She is a great singer unquestionably,” responded her more phlegmatic friend, “but the registers of her voice are not so even as, for instance, Melba’s.”

“Oh, bother Melba,” said Miss Gilder. “Tetrazzini gives infinitely more heat from her registers.”

* * * * *

Walter Damrosch tells of a matron in Chicago who, in company with her young nephew, was attending a musical entertainment.

The selections were apparently entirely unfamiliar to the youth; but when the “Wedding March” of Mendelssohn was begun he began to evince more interest.

“That sounds familiar,” he said. “I’m not strong on these classical pieces, but that’s a good one. What is it?”

“That,” gravely explained the matron, “is the ‘Maiden’s Prayer.’”

* * * * *

A messenger came tearing up to the White House in ’63, and hurriedly gaining admission to Mr. Lincoln, informed him in great excitement that a large wagon train had been surprised a short way across the Potomac and a brigadier-general taken prisoner.

“Did they capture the train?” inquired Old Abe.

“No, sir, the regiment came up and saved it,” answered the messenger, “but the general, Mr. President, is a prisoner.”

“Oh, never mind that,” said Lincoln. “I can make a dozen generals in a day, but mules cost $300 apiece.”

* * * * *

Two men were riding together one day through Paris. One was exceedingly bright and clever, while the other was correspondingly dull. As is usually the case, the latter monopolized the conversation. The talk of the dullard had become almost unendurable, when his companion saw a man on the street far ahead yawning.

“Look,” he exclaimed, “we are overheard!”

* * * * *

One afternoon Mrs. Murphy appeared at the settlement house, all dressed up in her best bonnet and shawl. A huge black and blue spot disfigured one side of her face, however, and one eye was nearly closed. “Why, Mrs. Murphy, what is the matter?” cried one of the teachers; and then, realizing that she might have asked a tactless question, she hastily turned it off, by saying, “Well, cheer up, you might be worse off.” “Sure an’ I might,” responded the indignant Mrs. Murphy. “I might not be married at all!”

* * * * *

A young woman in Central Park overheard an old negress call to a piccaninny: “Come heah, Exy, Exy!”

“Excuse me, but that’s a queer name for a baby, aunty?”

“Dat ain’t her full name,” explained the old woman with pride; “dat’s jes’ de pet name I calls for short. Dat chile got a mighty grand name. Her ma picked it out in a medicine book--yessum, de child’s full name is Eczema.”

* * * * *

Sir Richard Bethell, afterward Lord Westbury, with a suave voice and a stately manner, nevertheless had a way of bearing down the foe with almost savage wit. Once, in court, he had to follow a barrister who had delivered his remarks in very loud tones. “Now that the noise in court has subsided,” murmured Bethell, “I will tell your Honor in two sentences the gist of the case.”

* * * * *

The resemblance of the Rev. Robert Collyer to Henry Ward Beecher was often remarked. One day, when walking through Central Park, hat in hand, as the day was hot, at a sharp turn in the path he came upon an old lady seated on one of the park benches. At sight of him she jumped to her feet, exclaiming:

“Goodness me! This is not Mr. Beecher?”

“No, madam,” Dr. Collyer answered, “it is not. I hope Mr. Beecher is in a cooler place.”

* * * * *

It is not necessary that a lawyer should be eloquent to win verdicts, but he must have the tact which turns an apparent defeat to his own advantage. One of the most successful of verdict winners was Sir James Scarlett. His skill in turning a failure into a success was wonderful. In a breach-of-promise case the defendant, Scarlett’s client, was alleged to have been cajoled into an engagement by the plaintiff’s mother. She was a witness in behalf of her daughter, and completely baffled Scarlett, who cross-examined her. But in his argument he exhibited his tact by this happy stroke of advocacy: “You saw, gentlemen of the jury, that I was but a child in her hands. What must my client have been?”

* * * * *

He was a young man--a candidate for an agricultural constituency--and he was sketching in glowing colors to an audience of rural voters the happy life the laborer would lead under an administration for the propagation of sweetness and light. “We have not yet three acres and a cow, but it will come. Old-age pensions are still of the future, but they will come.” Similarly every item of his comprehensive program was endorsed by the same parrot cry. Then he went on to talk of prison reforms. “I have not yet personally,” he said, “been inside a criminal lunatic asylum.” Then there was a voice from the back of the hall, “But it will come.”

* * * * *

The judge had had his patience sorely tried by lawyers who wished to talk and by men who wished to evade jury service.

“Shudge!” cried a little German in the jury box.

“What is it?” demanded the judge.

“I t’ink I like to go home to my wife,” said the German.

“You can’t,” retorted the judge. “Sit down.”

“But, shudge,” persisted the German, “I don’t t’ink I make a good shuror.”

“You’re the best in the box,” said the judge. “Sit down.”

“What box?” said the German.

“Jury box,” said the judge.

“But, shudge,” persisted the little German, “I don’t speak good English.”

“You don’t have to speak any at all,” said the judge. “Sit down.”

The little German pointed at the lawyers to make his last desperate plea.

“Shudge,” he said, “I don’t make noddings of what these fellers say.”

It was the judge’s chance to get even for many annoyances.

“Neither can any one else,” he said. “Sit down.”

* * * * *

A parson, diminutive in size and his head covered with hair of the most fiery hue, officiated one Sunday for a friend in a colliery village near Nottingham. The old-fashioned pulpit had a high desk over which the parson’s red head was hardly visible. This was too much for a burly collier seated immediately under the pulpit, who when he heard the text, “I am the Light of the World,” exclaimed to the clerk, “Push him up a bit higher, mate; don’t let him burn in the socket.”

* * * * *

“Biddy,” said Pat timidly, “did ye iver think o’ marryin’?”’

“Shure, now,” said Biddy, looking demurely at her shoe--“shure, now, the subject has niver entered me mind at all, at all.”

“It’s sorry Oi am,” said Pat, and he turned away.

“Wan minute, Pat,” said Biddy softly. “Ye’ve set me thinkin’.”

* * * * *

From a French journal comes this little anecdote of a tutor and his royal pupil.

The lesson was in Roman history, and the prince was unprepared.

“We come now to the Emperor Caligula. What do you know about him, prince?”

The question was followed by a silence that was becoming awkward when it was broken by the diplomatic tutor. “Your highness is right,” he said, “perfectly right. The less said about this emperor the better.”

* * * * *

The following copies of queer advertisements have been collected and printed by club women:

“Bulldog for sale; will eat anything; is very fond of children.”

“Lost--Near Highgate Archway, an umbrella belonging to a gentleman with a bent rib and a bone handle.”

“Mr. Brown, furrier, begs to announce that he will make up gowns, capes and so forth, for ladies out of their own skin.”