Part 9

“_My dear Daughter Alyss_--I was glad to receive your letter and to know that you are enjoying yourself. Uncle Jaymes came the other day, bringing Charls and Albyrt with him. Your brother Henrie was delighted, for he has been lonely without you. I have bought a new gray horse whose name is Byllye. He matches nicely with old Fredde. With much love from us all, I am,

“Your affectionate father,

“WYLLYAM JONES.”

The next letter from the absent daughter was signed “Alice.”

* * * * *

While Chauncey M. Depew was at the Omaha Exposition, he and President Callaway of the New York Central chanced to go into a booth on the Midway Plaisance.

It was a tame entertainment and there was only a meager attendance when Mr. Depew and Mr. Callaway entered. Their stay would have been very brief except for the fact that they had scarcely taken their seats before there began a steady inpouring of people, which continued until the small auditorium was crowded.

Taking this extraordinary increase of spectators as an indication that something of an interesting nature was about to be disclosed, the two New Yorkers concluded to sit it out. Half an hour’s waiting failed to reward their patient expectancy, however, and Mr. Callaway suggested that they move on.

Just then ex-Secretary of Agriculture J. Sterling Morton pushed his way through the crowd, and, extending his hand to Mr. Depew, exclaimed:

“Well, Doctor Depew, so you are really here! I thought that ‘barker’ was lying.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Mr. Depew.

“Why, the ‘barker’ for this show is standing outside and inviting the crowd to ‘step up lively’ and pay ten cents for the privilege of seeing the ‘great and only Chauncey M. Depew.’”

* * * * *

That the royal road to learning is full of strange pitfalls is shown by some of the definitions and statements given by school-children--some of whom are well along the way. The following are _bona fide_ samples coming under the knowledge of one teacher:

“About this time Columbus was cursing around among the West Indies.”

“Jackson’s campaign in the Valley was the greatest piece of millinery-work ever known.”

“The Valkyrie were the Choosers of the Slain, and the Valhalla the Haulers of the Slain.”

“The eldest son of the King of France is called The Dolphin.”

“The Duke of Clarence, according to his usual custom, was killed in battle.”

“Heathen are paragons (pagans) that wash up idle things.”

“The Indians call their women squabs.”

* * * * *

A certain curate in the course of conversation at a dinner party some time ago remarked to a friend, “I had a curious dream last night, but as it was about my vicar I hardly like to tell it.” On being pressed, however, he began: “I dreamt I was dead and was on my way to Heaven, which was reached by a very long ladder. At the foot I was met by an angel, who pressed a piece of chalk into my hand and said, ‘If you climb long enough you will reach Heaven, but for every sin you are conscious of having committed you must mark a rung of the ladder with the chalk as you go up.’ I took the chalk and started. I had climbed up very, very far and was feeling very tired when I suddenly met my vicar coming down. ‘Hullo!’ I said, ‘what are you going down for?’ ‘More chalk.’”

* * * * *

Mrs. McKinley used to tell of a colored widow whose children she had helped educate. The widow, rather late in life, married.

“How are you getting on?” Mrs. McKinley asked her a few months after her marriage.

“Fine, thank yo’, ma’am,” the bride answered.

“And is your husband a good provider?”

“’Deed he am a good providah, ma’am,” was the enthusiastic reply. “Why, jes’ dis las’ week he got me five new places to wash at.”

* * * * *

A certain curate was of a painfully nervous temperament, and in consequence was constantly making awkward remarks--intended as compliments--to the bishop and others. Having distinguished himself in an unusual degree during a gathering of clergy to an afternoon tea at the bishop’s palace, he was taken to task for his failings by a senior curate, who was one of his companions on the way home.

“Look here, Bruce,” said the senior decidedly, “you are a donkey! Why can not you keep quiet, instead of making your asinine remarks? I am speaking to you now as a brother----”

Loud laughter interrupted him at this point, and for the moment he wondered why.

* * * * *

An earnest clergyman one Sunday morning was exhorting those who had anxious and troubled consciences to be sure and call on their pastor for guidance and prayer.

“To show you, my brethren, the blessed results of these visits with your pastor,” said he, “I will state to you that only yesterday a gentleman of wealth called upon me for counsel and instruction; and now to-day, my friends--to-day he sits among us, not only a Christian, but a happy husband and father.”

A young lady in the audience whispered to a matron: “Wasn’t that pretty quick work?”

* * * * *

A good story is told of the late George Augustus Sala in his early and impecunious days. At some festive gathering where Mr. Sala was present, Mr. Attemborough, the famous pawnbroker, was also a guest. They recognized each other, and shook hands.

“How do you do, Mr. Attemborough,” said the journalist. “We have met often before, but I think this is the first time I have ever seen your legs.”

* * * * *

A clergyman in the West Country had two curates, one a comparatively old man, the other very young. With the former he had not been able to work agreeably; and on being invited to another living, he accepted it, and took the young curate with him. Naturally, there was a farewell sermon; and we can imagine the feelings of the curate who was to be left behind when he heard the text given out, “Abide ye here with the ass, and I and the lad will go yonder and worship.”

* * * * *

A bishop was staying with a friend in a country house. On Sunday morning as he passed through the library he found a small boy curled up in a big chair, deeply interested in a book.

“Are you going to church, Tom?” he asked.

“No, sir,” he replied.

“Why, I am,” said the Bishop.

“Huh,” said the boy, “you’ve got to go. It’s your job.”

* * * * *

A celebrated continental specialist to whom time was literally money and who was possessed of a fiery temper made it a rule that all patients should undress before entering his consulting room so as not to waste any of his valuable time. One day a meek-looking little man entered with all his clothes on. “What do you mean by coming in like that?” said the doctor in a rage. “Go and strip at once!” “But I--” faltered the man. “I tell you I’ve no time to waste,” yelled the doctor, and the poor man left the room in haste. When his turn came he reentered the room. “Now then,” said the doctor, “that’s better. What can I do for you?” “I called to collect your subscription for the benevolent society.”

* * * * *

A tall man, impatiently pacing the platform of a wayside station, accosted a red-haired boy of about twelve.

“S-s-say,” he said, “d-d-do y-you know ha-ha-how late this train is?”

The boy grinned but made no reply. The man stuttered out something about red-headed kids in general and passed into the station.

A stranger, overhearing the one-sided conversation, asked the boy why he hadn’t answered the big man.

“D-d-d’ye wanter see me g-g-get me fa-fa-face punched?” stammered the boy. “D-d-dat big g-g-guy’d tink I was mo-mo-mocking him.”

* * * * *

“Mother,” said a college student who had brought his chum home for the holidays, “permit me to present my friend, Mr. Specknoodle.”

His mother, who was a little hard of hearing, placed her hand to her ear.

“I’m sorry, George, but I didn’t quite catch your friend’s name. You’ll have to speak a little louder, I’m afraid.”

“I say, mother,” shouted George, “I want to present my friend Mr. _Specknoodle_.”

“I’m sorry, George, but Mr. ---- What was the name again?”

“MR. SPECKNOODLE!” George fairly yelled.

The old lady shook her head sadly.

“I’m sorry, George, but I’m afraid it’s no use. It sounds just like Specknoodle to me.”

* * * * *

A young American lady on a visit to London was being shown some of the sights by a boastful Englishman. “This is a cannon captured at Bunker Hill,” said the Englishman. “How interesting,” exclaimed the lady. “I must explain,” said the gentleman tauntingly, “that this cannon was captured from the Americans by the English.” The lady quietly retorted, “Well, you have the cannon; we have the hill.”

* * * * *

Former Congressman Fred Landis of Indiana has made a reputation for himself as an orator. A year or so ago Landis, speaking at the unveiling of a monument to President Lincoln, uttered the phrase, “Abraham Lincoln--that mystic mingling of star and clod.” This was loudly applauded. After the speech a friend of Landis approached him, and, repeating the phrase, said: “Fred, what in the name of heaven does that mean?” Putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder, Landis replied: “I don’t know, really, but it gets ’em every time.”

* * * * *

Captain Foretopp tells a story of a certain noted divine who was on his steamer when a great gale overtook them off the Oregon coast. “It looks pretty bad,” said the Bishop to the Captain. “Couldn’t be much worse, Bishop,” replied Foretopp.

Half an hour later the steamer was diving under the waves as if she were a submarine and leaking like an old door. “Looks worse, I think, Captain,” said the Bishop. “We must trust in Providence now, Bishop,” answered Foretopp.

“Oh, I hope it has not come to that,” gasped the Bishop.

* * * * *

A couple of New Yorkers were playing golf on a New Jersey course on Election Day when they saw a fine-appearing old gentleman looking at them wistfully. They asked him to join the game, which he did with alacrity. He was mild in speech and manner and played well. But once when he had made a foozle he ejaculated vehemently the word: “Croton!” A few minutes later when he made another bad play, he repeated: “Croton!” The third time he said it, one of his new-made friends said: “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but will you tell me why you say ‘Croton’ so often?” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “isn’t that the biggest dam near New York?” He was a Presbyterian clergyman from Brooklyn.

* * * * *

Willie, aged five, was taken by his father to his first football game. The feature that caught his chief approval, however, did not become evident until he said his prayers that night. To the horror of his parents Willie prayed with true football snap:

“God bless papa, God bless mama, God bless Willie; Rah! Rah! Rah!”

* * * * *

A suburban minister during his discourse one Sabbath morning said: “In each blade of grass there is a sermon.” The following day one of his flock discovered the good man pushing a lawn mower about his garden and paused to say: “Well, parson, I’m glad to see you engaged in cutting your sermons short.”

* * * * *

“Now, Bobby,” instructed the Fond Maternal Parent of the prodigy in velveteens, bound for a children’s party, “the weather looks rather threatening. Here is half a dollar for you, and if it rains come back by cab.”

Two hours later it came down cats and dogs, and F. M. P. (Fond Maternal Parent) returned devout thanks for her forethought.

But when little Bobby Velveteens returned he was wet to the skin.

“Why, Bobby,” cried the F. M. P., “didn’t you come back by cab, as I told you?”

“Oh, yes, ma!” answered Bobby. “And it was simply splendid! I rode on the box beside the driver!”

* * * * *

A Bishop of the Episcopal Church lived all his life unwed. A friend mentioned that one of the States was imposing a tax on bachelors, to be increased a certain percentage every ten years of bachelorhood, and added: “Why, Bishop, at your age you would have to pay a hundred dollars a year.”

“Well,” said the Bishop quietly, “it’s worth it.”

* * * * *

Two old women, on their way home from church, in a country district of Scotland, were speaking of Napoleon’s overthrow, by the allied troops at Waterloo. The minister had been pointing a moral by aid of the Corsican hero’s defeat.

“Hoo is it,” said one, in her narrow way, “the Scotch aye win their battles?”

“Weel, ye ken, it’s because they aye pray afore they go in the fecht,” replied the other.

“Ay! But mercy, wuman, canna the French pray, as weel?”

“Nae doobt, they dae; but wha could understan’ they jabberin’ bodies?” snapped the interrogated one, in peremptory answer.

* * * * *

Curiously worded advertisements that are funny without intent are common in the London papers. Here are a few examples:

“A boy wanted who can open oysters with references.”

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

“Wanted an organist and a boy to blow the same.”

“Wanted, a boy to be partly outside and partly inside the counter.”

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

“To be disposed of, a mail phaeton, the property of a gentleman with a movable headpiece as good as new.”

* * * * *

A tall young man stalked with stately stride into the office of a small hotel in a remote part of the White Mountains. Behind him came a severe valet carrying bags and a gun-case, and on a wagon at the door were two prosperous trunks. In an armchair behind the hotel counter sat a spare old man placidly chewing tobacco and reading the “Weekly Recorder.”

“Ah-h-h! Hm!” the tall young man began. “Is this Mr. Silas P. Meacham, proprietor of this hotel?”

“Yaas,” replied the old one, glancing up over his paper.

“I am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of the Metropolis Club, of New York,” said the visitor, impressively. “My friend, Mr. Vandergilt, told me you would take excellent care of me here.”

“Ya-as,” replied Silas, still buried in his paper.

“_I_ am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of New York,” the visitor repeated. “My friend, Mr. Vandergilt, told me you would take excellent care of me here.”

“Ya-a-as,” said Silas, still chewing and reading his paper.

“_I_ am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of New York,” the young man reiterated with the air of one who tells great news, also with rising indignation. “My friend, Mr. _Vandergilt_, told me you would take excellent care of me--show me every attention.”

“Wa-al,” exclaimed Silas P. Meacham, throwing down the paper and revealing his few yellow teeth in a mocking grin--“wa-al, what d’ye want me t’ do--kiss ye?”

* * * * *

Court--(to prosecutor)--“Then you recognize this handkerchief as the one which was stolen?”

Prosecutor--“Yes, your honor.”

Court--“And yet it isn’t the only handkerchief of the sort in the world. See, this one I have in my pocket is exactly like it.”

Prosecutor--“Very likely, your honor; there were two stolen.”

* * * * *

The company of soldiers had been receiving a lesson in minor tactics, and among other subjects was the method of patrols in getting information. The book said that information could be obtained from “mayors, postmasters, livery-stable keepers, doctors, peasants, etc.”

The lieutenant turned to Finnegan and said: “Do you know what a peasant is, Finnegan?”

He answered promptly, “Yes, sor.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s a bird, sor,” said Finnegan with evident pride.

* * * * *

Senator Pettus, of Alabama, was writing with a noisy, spluttering pen. Laying it down, he smiled and said: “Once I was spending the evening with a friend of mine in Selma. We sat in the dining-room and from the kitchen came a dreadful scratching sound. ‘Martha,’ said my friend to the maid, ‘what is that scratching? it must be the dog trying to get in.’ ‘Huh!’ said Martha, ‘Dat ain’ no dog, dat’s cook writin’ a love-letter to heh honeysuckle.’”

* * * * *

“No smoking in this coach, sir,” said the conductor of a passenger train. “I’m not smokin’,” answered the passenger with an injured air from the depths of his seat.

“You’ve got your pipe in your mouth,” declared the conductor with emphasis, sharply confident. “I hov,” retorted the Hibernian, “and I hov me fut in me shoe, too, but I’m not walkin’.”

* * * * *

Little Alice is old for her years. One evening after she had gone to bed she heard mama and papa laughing in much enjoyment over a game of flinch; she longed to get up and join them, but knew she must not. The next morning at breakfast she was very quiet. Presently she drew a deep sigh, and said, “What a good time you and papa had last night. Oh, I feel the need of a husband, mama, I _do_ feel it!”

* * * * *

A teacher in one of the primary schools of New York recently read to her pupils “The Old Oaken Bucket.”

After explaining the song to them very carefully, she asked the class to copy the first stanza from the blackboard, where she had written it, and try to illustrate the verse by drawings in the same way a story is illustrated.

In a short while one little girl handed up her paper with several little dots between two lines, a circle, half a dozen dots, and three buckets.

“I do not quite understand this, Mamie,” said the teacher, kindly. “What is that circle?”

“Oh, that’s the well,” Mamie replied.

“And why do you have three buckets?” again asked the teacher.

“One,” answered the child, “is the oaken bucket, one is the iron-bound bucket, and the other is the moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.”

“But, Mamie, what are all these little dots for?”

“Why those are the spots which my infancy knew,” earnestly replied Mamie.

* * * * *

Four gentlemen went out to dine. They were Arthur Balfour, Joseph Chamberlain, Lord Charles Beresford, and the Japanese Minister. Mr. Arthur Balfour was standing treat and said to Joey, “What will you take?” “Oh, thanks, I’ll take Scotch, Arthur.” “And what will you take, Lord Charles?” “Oh, thanks, I’ll take Irish, Arthur.” “And now, what will you take?” addressing the Japanese Minister. “I’ll take Port Arthur, thanks.”

* * * * *

Not long after the great Chelsea fire some children in Newton, Massachusetts, held a Charity Fair by which eighteen dollars were realized. This they forwarded to the rector of a certain Boston church who had taken a prominent part in the relief work, with a letter which read somewhat as follows:

“We have had a fair and made eighteen dollars. We are sending it to you. Please give it to the Chelsea sufferers.

“Yours truly, etc.

“P. S. We hope the suffering is not all over.”

* * * * *

A story is told of a certain committee meeting in which the proceedings commenced with noise and gradually became uproarious. At last one of the disputants, losing all control over his emotions, exclaimed to his opponent: “Sir, you are, I think, the biggest ass that I ever had the misfortune to set eyes upon!” “Order! order!” said the chairman, gravely; “you seem to forget that I am in the room.”

* * * * *

An Irish priest had labored hard with one of his flock to induce him to give up whisky. “I tell you, Michael,” said the priest, “whisky is your worst enemy, and you should keep as far away from it as you can.” “The enemy is it, father?” responded Michael, “and it was your riverence’s self that was telling us in the pulpit last Sunday to love our enemies.” “So I was, Michael,” rejoined the priest, “but I didn’t tell you to swallow them.”

* * * * *

A Sabbath-school worker was visiting a Sabbath-school some distance from home. Being called upon to address the school, he commenced by asking, “Who can tell me something about Peter?” (the lesson was about Peter that day). Having received no answer from either large or small pupils, he again made the request. This time a little girl put up her hand. He called the little girl to him and placed her upon a chair. After complimenting her on her bravery and brightness, he asked her to tell him all she knew about Peter. In return came the following:

“Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her; Put her in a pumpkin shell Where he kept her very well.”

* * * * *

Senator Beveridge, in recommending broad and generous views to the graduating class of a medical school, told this story:

“I once saw two famous physicians introduced at a reception. They were deservedly famous, but they were of opposing schools; and the regular, as he shook the other by the hand, said loudly:

“‘I am glad to meet you as a gentleman, sir, though I can’t admit that you are a physician.’

“‘And I,’ said the homeopathist, smiling faintly, ’am glad to meet you as a physician, though I can’t admit you are a gentleman.’”

* * * * *

At a recent dinner in London the conversation turned to the subject of lynching in the United States. It was the general opinion that a large percentage of Americans met death at the end of a rope. Finally the hostess turned to an American, who had taken no part in the conversation, and said:

“You, sir, must have often seen these affairs.”

“Yes,” he replied, “we take a kind of municipal pride in seeing which city can show the greatest number of lynchings yearly.”

“Oh, do tell us about a lynching you have seen yourself,” broke in half a dozen voices at once.

“The night before I sailed for England,” said Eugene Field, “I was giving a dinner at a hotel to a party of intimate friends when a colored waiter spilled a plate of soup over the gown of a lady at an adjoining table. The gown was utterly ruined, and the gentlemen of her party at once seized the waiter, tied a rope around his neck, and at a signal from the injured lady swung him into the air.”

“Horrible,” said the hostess with a shudder. “And did you actually see this yourself?”

“Well, no,” admitted the American apologetically. “Just at that moment I happened to be downstairs killing the chef for putting mustard in the blanc mange.”

* * * * *

Mrs. Jones recently spent a few days at a farm, and in a moment of originality bought some poultry from the farmer with a view to their providing fresh eggs for breakfast every morning. She sent them to town per the local carrier, despatching a note at the same time to her husband telling him to look out for the consignment. When Jones reached home from his office he inquired if the poultry had arrived. The servant told him they had, but the man had carelessly put them in the back yard, leaving the door open, and they had all escaped. Thereupon a fowl hunt was immediately organized. The next day Jones saw the carrier. “Nice trick you played me yesterday,” said he; “spent three hours hunting those fowls and only found ten.” “Then think yourself blessed lucky,” replied the man. “I only brought six.”

* * * * *

A patronizing young lord was seated opposite the late James McNeill Whistler at dinner one evening. During a lull in the conversation he adjusted his monocle and leaned forward toward the artist.

“Aw, y’ know, Mr. Whistler,” he drawled, “I pahssed your house this mawning.”

“Thank you,” said Whistler quietly. “Thank you very much.”

* * * * *

The new minister in a Georgia church was delivering his first sermon. The darky janitor was a critical listener from a back corner of the church. The minister’s sermon was eloquent, and his prayers seemed to cover the whole category of human wants.

After the services one of the deacons asked the old darky what he thought of the new minister. “Don’t you think he offers up a good prayer, Joe?”