Part 13

“They gave us supper, good hog and hominy, the best they had, and then the old woman put the two youngest kids to bed. They went straight to sleep. Then she took those out, laid them over in the corner, put the next two to bed, and so on.

“After all the children were asleep on the floor the old folk went in the other room and told us we could go to bed if we wanted to, and bein’ powerful tired out, we did.

“Well, sir, the next morning when we woke up we were lying over in the corner with the kids, and the old man and the old woman had the bed.”

* * * * *

“Waiter, what have you got?” said May Irwin in one of her plays.

“Well, I’ve got pig’s feet--”

“Never mind telling me your troubles, I want to know what you’ve got to eat?”

* * * * *

As every one knows, the great Von Moltke never wasted words and despised anything that approached garrulity in others. German army officers are fond of telling an anecdote illustrative of this peculiarity:

Von Moltke was leaving Berlin on a railway journey. Just before the train pulled out of the station a captain of hussars entered the general’s compartment and, recognizing him, saluted with “Guten Morgen, Excellenz!”

Two hours later the train slowed up at a way station. The captain arose, saluted, and with another “Guten Morgen, Excellenz!” left the train.

Turning to one of his companions, Von Moltke said, with an expression of the greatest disgust, “Intolerable gas-bag!”

* * * * *

A gentleman gave a large dinner party in Dublin once and invited Mr. O’Connor, one of the wittiest men in the Emerald Isle, to amuse and divert his guests. Mr. O’Connor accepted the invitation with pleasure. But from the beginning to the end of dinner he preserved a solemn and serious face. The host thought this very strange, and just before rising from the table remarked to him jestingly, “Why, O’Connor, old fellow, I don’t believe the biggest fool in Ireland could make you laugh to-night.” Whereupon his guest answered in a solemn tone, speaking his first word that evening, “Try.”

* * * * *

Governor Guild of Massachusetts, who served in the Spanish War, tells a story of a New York regiment, many of whose members were recruited on the East Side. They were spoiling for a fight, and it became necessary to post a sentry to preserve order.

A big husky Bowery recruit, of pugilistic propensities, was put on guard outside, and given special orders to see that quiet reigned, and above all things, if trouble came his way, not to lose possession of his rifle.

Soon a general row began, growing in proportions as the minutes passed. The soldier walked his post nervously, without interrupting, until the corporal of the guard appeared on the scene with reenforcements.

“Why didn’t you stop this row?” shouted the corporal.

The sentry, balancing his rifle on his shoulder, raised his arms to the correct boxing position, and replied:

“Sure, phwat could I do wid this gun in me hands!”

* * * * *

A New Jersey man recently reached the conclusion that his eight-year-old boy is a trifle too bright.

At dinner one evening the father had been entertaining a number of friends from Philadelphia with a funny story. This was at dessert. The youngster had been very quiet throughout the previous courses; but here he arose to the occasion in fine style.

When the laughter induced by his father’s humor had ceased, the boy, with a fine affectation of delight, said:

“Now, dad, _do_ tell the other one!”

* * * * *

The June bride frowned.

“These tomatoes,” she said, “are just twice as dear as those across the street. Why is it?”

“Ah, ma’am, these”--and the grocer smiled--“these are hand-picked.”

She blushed.

“Of course,” she said, hastily; “I might have known. Give me a bushel, please.”

* * * * *

Mistress--“Jane, I saw the milkman kiss you this morning. In the future I will take the milk in.”

Jane--“’Twouldn’t be no use, mum. He’s promised never to kiss anybody but me.”

* * * * *

Not long ago a man was charged with shooting a number of pigeons, the property of a farmer. In giving his evidence the farmer was exceedingly careful, even nervous, and the solicitor for the defense endeavored to frighten him. “Now,” he remarked, “are you prepared to swear that this man shot your pigeons?” “I didn’t say he did shoot ’em,” was the reply. “I said I suspected him o’ doing it.” “Ah! now we’re coming to it. What made you suspect that man?” “Well, firstly, I caught him on my land wi’ a gun. Secondly, I heerd a gun go off an’ saw some pigeons fall. Thirdly, I found four o’ my pigeons in his pocket--an’ I don’t think them birds flew there and committed suicide.”

* * * * *

“Mama, can’t I go up to the next block and play with the Jones boys?” asked Henry, a boy of six, who was being brought up very carefully.

“No, indeed!” answered his mother. “They are very bad boys.”

“Then can’t I go over to see Mrs. Smith’s little girls?”

“No, Henry; I’m afraid to let you go.”

The little fellow left the room; later, he stuck his head inside with, “Say, mama, I’m going over next door an’ play with the dog.”

* * * * *

The Right Reverend Chauncey B. Brewster, D.D., Bishop of Connecticut, tells a story which he says is Mrs. Brewster’s favorite. It seems the Bishop had caught a small boy stealing apples in his orchard; so, after reproving him severely for some time, he said, “And now, my boy, do you know why I tell you all this? There is One before whom even I am a crawling worm; do you know who?”

“Sure,” replied the boy, promptly; “the missus.”

* * * * *

A Bishop was once traveling third-class on a branch line in Devonshire, England. At one of the stations a countryman got in. After gazing at the Bishop’s attire in a puzzled manner for some time, he ventured the remark, “Be you a curate, sir?”

“Well,” said the Bishop meditatively, “I was once.”

“A-ah,” said the rustic, a comprehensive smile overspreading his face, “the drink, I suppose?”

* * * * *

A celebrated parson preached a rather long sermon from the text “Thou art weighed and found wanting.” After the congregation had listened about an hour, some began to get weary and went out; others soon followed, greatly to the annoyance of the minister. Another person was about to retire when the minister stopped his sermon and said: “That’s right, gentlemen; as fast as you are weighed, pass out.”

* * * * *

“Here, hold my horse a minute, will you?”

“Sir! I’m a Member of Congress!”

“Never mind. You look honest. I’ll take a chance.”

* * * * *

A red-faced man was holding the attention of a little group with some wonderful recitals.

“The most exciting chase I ever had,” he said, “happened a few years ago in Russia. One night, when sleighing about ten miles from my destination I discovered, to my intense horror, that I was being followed by a pack of wolves. I fired blindly into the pack, killing one of the brutes, and to my delight saw the others stop to devour it. After doing this, however, they still came on. I kept on repeating the dose, with the same result, and each occasion gave me an opportunity to whip up my horse. Finally there was only one wolf left, yet on it came, with its fierce eyes glowing in anticipation of a good, hot supper.”

Here the man who had been sitting in the corner burst forth into a fit of laughter.

“Why, man,” said he, “by your way of reckoning that last wolf must have had the rest of the pack inside him!”

“Ah!” said the red-faced man without a tremor, “now I remember, it did wobble a bit.”

* * * * *

Frederic Remington, the illustrator, fresh from a Western trip on which he had been making studies of Indians and cowpunchers and things outdoors, met an art editor who insisted upon dragging him up to an exhibition of very impressionistic pictures.

“You don’t seem enthusiastic,” remarked the editor as they were coming out. “Didn’t you like them?”

Remington, remembering what he had been told as a boy, counted ten before replying. Then:

“Like ’em? Say! I’ve got two maiden aunts in New Rochelle that can _knit_ better pictures than those!”

* * * * *

The wife of General S. was doing some shopping one morning recently when, coming out of a store, she noticed a small country wagon draw up to the curb. In it sat a woman whom the lady recognized as a former servant in the family who had lost her husband some two or three years before. The woman was clad in deep mourning which had an air of newness about it. Mrs. S. hastened to greet the woman. “How is this, Bridget. I hope you haven’t met with any recent bereavement?”

“No, mem, not so racent--it’s for poor Mike. I allus said _when_ I could I would--and so I _am_!”

* * * * *

Those who know a certain Southern Senator will picture his ample proportions when they read this story:

While journeying through the South, he was very much annoyed one day at the delay in getting food served in a certain _café_. He had given his order, and waited impatiently an unreasonable length of time, when the waiter appeared and was evidently looking for some one who must have gone out without waiting for his meal.

When asked by the Senator whom he was looking for he replied.

“A little boy who gave his order.”

The Senator replied: “I am that boy.”

* * * * *

Jack’s mother had been walking up and down the piazza with him repeating Mother Goose. She began the “Solomon Grundy” one, going through it rapidly without taking breath, ending laughingly:

“Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, And that was the end Of Solomon Grundy.”

Jack took his thumb out of his mouth, looked reprovingly at his mother and said:

“Don’t laugh, mama: that’s _awful_.”

* * * * *

“I’m a terror, I be,” announced the new arrival in Frozen Dog to one of the men behind the bar.

“Be ye?”

“Take three men to handle me, once I get started,” he went on.

“Oh, well,” he remarked, as he arose painfully and dusted off his clothes, “of course, if ye’re short-handed, I suppose two kin do it on a pinch.”

* * * * *

David B. Hill, former Governor of and Senator from New York, has a secluded hatter somewhere in the State who makes his high hats after elaborate plans drawn by Mr. Hill many years ago, and not changed since.

One night Governor Odell, of New York, was giving a reception in Albany, and President Roosevelt, then elected Vice-President, met Mr. Hill on the steps of the New York Executive mansion.

Roosevelt wore a black rough-rider hat and Hill had one of his peculiar sky-pieces.

“Senator,” said Roosevelt, “you should wear a hat like this one that I have on. They are much easier on the head, preserve the hair and are altogether better than silk ones.”

Mr. Hill looked at the coming Vice-President. “My dear sir,” he said, “I haven’t worn a hat like that since I went out of the show business.”

* * * * *

A negress was brought before a magistrate charged with cruelly treating her child. Evidence was clear that she had severely beaten the youngster, who was in court to exhibit his marks and bruises. Before imposing sentence the magistrate asked the woman if she had anything to say. “Kin Ah ask yo’ honah a question?” His honor nodded. “Well, yo’ honah, I’d like to ask yo’ whether yo’ was ever the father of a puffectly wuthless culled chile?”

* * * * *

A member of an eminent St. Louis law firm went to Chicago to consult a client. When he arrived he found that he had unaccountably forgotten the client’s name. He telegraphed his partner, “What is our client’s name?” The answer read, “Brown, Walter E. Yours is Allen, William B.”

* * * * *

A traveling man stopped at an Indiana hotel. The proprietor told him he had not a room in the house. The man said he must have a room. Finally the proprietor told him there was a room, a little room separated by a thin partition from a nervous man who had lived in the house for ten years.

“He is so nervous,” said the landlord, “I don’t dare put any one in that room. The least noise might give him a nervous spell that would endanger his life.”

“Oh, give me a room,” said the traveler. “I’ll be so quiet he’ll not know I’m there.”

The room was given the traveler. He slipped in noiselessly and began to disrobe. He took off one article of clothing after another as quietly as a burglar. At last he came to his shoes. He unlaced a shoe and dropped it.

The shoe fell to the floor with a great noise. The offending traveler, horrified at what he had done, waited to hear from the nervous man. Not a sound. He took off the second shoe and placed it noiselessly upon the floor; then in absolute silence finished undressing and crawled between the sheets.

Half an hour went by. He had dropped into a doze when there came a tremendous knocking on the partition.

The traveler sat up in bed trembling and dismayed. “Wh-wha-what’s the matter?” he asked.

Then came the voice of the nervous man:

“Hang you! Drop that other shoe, will you?”

* * * * *

There was once an Irishman, who sought employment as a diver, bringing with him his native enthusiasm and a certain amount of experience. Although he had never been beneath the water, he had crossed an ocean of one variety and swallowed nearly an ocean of another. But he had the Hibernian smile, which is convincing, and the firm chanced to need a new man. And so on the following Monday morning Pat hid his smile for the first time in a diving helmet.

Now, the job upon which the crew to which Pat had attached himself was working in comparatively shallow water, and Pat was provided with a pick and told to use it on a ledge below in a manner with which he was already familiar.

Down he went with his pick, and for about fifteen minutes nothing was heard from him. Then came a strong, determined, deliberate pull on the signal rope, indicating that Pat had a very decided wish to come to the top. The assistants pulled him hastily to the raft and removed his helmet.

“Take off the rest of it,” said Pat.

“Take off the rest of it?”

“Yis,” said Pat, “Oi’ll worruk no longer in a dark place where Oi can’t spit on me hands.”

* * * * *

On the first day that a young man began his duties as reporter on a popular paper a report came from a near-by town that there was a terrible fire raging. The editor of the paper immediately sent the new reporter to the place, and, upon arriving there, he found that the firemen were unable to get control of the fire, so he sent this telegram to the editor: “Fire still raging. What shall I do?” The editor was so mad that he wired back at once: “Find out where the fire is the hottest and jump in.”

* * * * *

“One day,” related Denny to his friend Jerry, “when Oi had wandered too far inland on me shore leave Oi suddenly found thot there was a great big haythen, tin feet tall, chasin’ me wid a knife as long as yer ar-rm. Oi took to me heels an’ for fifty miles along the road we had it nip an’ tuck. Thin Oi turned into the woods an’ we run for one hundhred an’ twinty miles more, wid him gainin’ on me steadily, owin’ to his knowledge of the counthry. Finally, just as Oi could feel his hot breath burnin’ on the back of me neck, we came to a big lake. Wid one great leap Oi landed safe on the opposite shore, leavin’ me pursuer confounded and impotent wid rage.”

“Faith an’ thot was no great jump,” commented Jerry, “considerin’ the runnin’ sthart ye had.”

* * * * *

Quite recently an old friend of the Browns went to see them at their new country home. As he approached the house a large dog ran out to the gate and began barking at him through the fence.

As he hesitated about opening the gate, Brown’s wife came to the door and exclaimed: “How do you do! Come right in. Don’t mind the dog.”

“But won’t he bite?” exclaimed the friend, not anxious to meet the canine without some assurance of his personal safety.

“That’s just what I want to find out,” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “I just bought him this morning.”

* * * * *

The late Julian Ralph, one of the most gifted newspaper men of his generation, while being shaved one day, was forced to listen to many of the barber’s anecdotes.

Stopping to strop his razor, and prepared, with brush in hand to recommence, he said, “Shall I go over it again?”

“No, thanks,” drawled Ralph, “It’s hardly necessary. I think I can remember every word.”

* * * * *

The following is a typical Ian Maclaren story:

“Who had this place last year?” asked a Southern shooting tenant of his keeper.

“Well,” said Donald, “I’m not denyin’ that he wass an Englishman, but he wass a good man whatever. Oh, yess, he went to kirk and he shot very well, but he wass narrow, very narrow.”

“Narrow,” said the other in amazement, for he supposed he meant bigoted, and the charge was generally the other way about. “What was he narrow in?”

“Well,” said Donald, “I will be tellin’ you, and it wass this way. The twelfth [the beginning of the grouse shooting] wass a very good day, and we had fifty-two brace. But it wass warm, oh! yess, very warm, and when we came back to the Lodge, the gentleman will say to me, ‘It is warm.’ and I will not be contradicting him. Then he will be saying, ‘Maybe you are thirsty,’ and I will not be contradicting him. Afterwards he will take out his flask and be speaking about a dram. I will not be contradicting him, but will just say, ‘Toots, toots.’ Then he will be pouring it out, and when the glass wass maybe half-full I will say, just for politeness, ‘Stop.’ And he stopped. Oh! yess, a very narrow man.”

* * * * *

Mark Twain as a humorist is no respecter of persons, and a story is told of him and Bishop Doane which is worth repeating. It occurred when Mark Twain was living in Hartford, where Mr. Doane was then rector of an Episcopal church. Twain had listened to one of the doctor’s best sermons, on Sunday morning, when he approached him and said politely: “I have enjoyed your sermon this morning. I welcomed it as I would an old friend. I have a book in my library that contains every word of it.” “Impossible, sir,” replied the rector, indignantly. “Not at all. I assure you it is true,” said Twain. “Then I shall trouble you to send me that book,” rejoined the rector with dignity. The next morning Dr. Doane received, with Mark Twain’s compliments, a dictionary.

* * * * *

A friend of Mark Twain’s tells of an amusing incident in connection with the first meeting between the humorist and the late James McNeil Whistler, the artist.

The friend having facetiously warned Clemens that the painter was a confirmed joker, Mark solemnly averred that he would get the better of Whistler should the latter attempt “any funny business.” Furthermore, Twain determined to anticipate Whistler, if possible.

So, when the two had been introduced, which event took place in Whistler’s studio, Clemens, assuming an air of hopeless stupidity, approached a just-completed painting, and said:

“Not at all bad, Mr. Whistler, not at all bad. Only,” he added, reflectively, with a motion as if to rub out a cloud effect, “if I were you I’d do away with that cloud.”

“Great Heavens, sir!” exclaimed Whistler, almost beside himself. “Do be careful not to touch that; the paint is not yet dry!”

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” responded Twain, with an air of perfect nonchalance; “I am wearing gloves.”

* * * * *

This is a story of Italian revenge. A vender of plaster statuettes saw a chance for a sale in a well-dressed, bibulous man who was tacking down the street.

“You buy-a de statuette?” he asked, alluringly holding out his choicest offering. “Gar-r-ribaldi--I sell-a him verra cheep. De gr-reat-a Gar-r-ribaldi--only thirta cents!”

“Oh, t’ell with Garibaldi,” said the bibulous one, making a swipe with his arm that sent Garibaldi crashing to the sidewalk.

For a moment the Italian regarded the fragments. Then, his eyes flashing fire, he seized from his stock a statuette of George Washington. “You t’ell-a with my Gar-r-ribaldi?” he hissed between his teeth. “So.” He raised the immortal George high above his head and--crash! it flew into fragments alongside of the ill-fated Garibaldi. “Ha! I to hell-a wid your George-a Wash! Ha, ha!”

* * * * *

Patrick arrived home much the worse for wear. One eye was closed, his nose was broken, and his face looked as though it had been stung by bees.

“Glory be!” exclaimed his wife.

“Thot Dutchman Schwartzheimer--’twas him,” explained Patrick.

“Shame on ye!” exploded his wife without sympathy. “A big shpalpeen the loikes of you to get bate up by a little omadhoun of a Dootchman the size of him! Why--”

“Whist, Nora,” said Patrick, “don’t spake disrespectfully of the dead!”

* * * * *

One day a teacher in a kindergarten school in New York, preparatory to giving out an exercise said, “Now children I want you all to be very quiet, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.” Everything had quieted down nicely and the teacher was about to speak when a little voice in the rear of the room said, “Go ahead, teacher, and let her drop.”

* * * * *

It appears that the late Senator John T. Morgan, who was quite near-sighted, while at dessert one evening in a hotel at Hot Springs, Virginia, experienced considerable difficulty in separating from the plate passed him by the colored waiter what he thought was a chocolate eclair. It stuck fast, so Senator Morgan pushed his fork quite under it, and tried again and again to pry it up.

Suddenly he became aware that his friends at the table were convulsed with laughter, which much mystified him. But his surprise was even greater when the waiter quietly remarked:

“Pardon me, Senator, but that’s my thumb!”

* * * * *

A doctor named Brown had been the adorer for many years of a Miss White. Unluckily his ardent love was not reciprocated. He had a reputation for ready wit and did not allow even his unfortunate love affair to stand in the way of his exercising it. One night over a glass of wine in the club the good doctor frequented a wag remarked, “What do you say, doctor, to my giving the toast of Miss White, your old flame?” “You may, and you’ll not do any harm either to her or to me by toasting her as often as you please, for I’ve toasted her all these years and there are still no symptoms of her turning Brown.”

* * * * *

Minister (who struggles to exist on $600 a year with wife and six children)--“We are giving up meat as a little experiment, Mrs. Dasher.”

Wealthy parishioner--“Oh, yes! One can live so well on fish, poultry, game, and plenty of nourishing wines.”

* * * * *

A woman who traveled a great deal in the West was known as the most inveterate “kicker” a certain hotel had ever known.

One evening after she had been served with dessert this lady, who was always complaining, asked the waiter why the dish served her was called “ice-cream pudding.”

“If you don’t like it, ma’am, I’ll bring you something else,” suggested the polite negro.

“Oh, it’s very nice,” responded the lady. “What I object to is that it should be called ice-cream pudding. It’s wrongly named. There should be ice cream served with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the waiter, “but that’s jest our name for it. Lots o’ dishes that way. Dey don’t bring you a cottage with cottage pudding, you know.”

* * * * *