Chapter II: Part 2

If this was judgment day and you no more prepared to met your
God than I am your account, your shor going to Hell.

* * * * *

The editor of the “Hardeman Free Press” says:

We fell asleep in a chair at Grand Junction last Wednesday night on our way home from Memphis in our usual soaked condition and let our train leave us. The hotel clerk told us to go upstairs and take the room on the right side of the hall with the lamp burning low. He sed he was crowded and we would have to double up with a man. We went up and pulled off our things and went to bed without waking our bedfellow, who was sleeping sound with the sheet over his head to keep off the muskeeters. Before we fell into the arms of morphine we seen a young lady and a young gent come in and set down by the winder. At first they talked so low we could not hear what they sed. Finally we heard the little miss say: Wallie, ain’t you ashamed to try to kiss me right here where we air setting up with a dead person? We felt cureous. We slowly reached over and touched the nose of the man we wus in bed with, and seen at a glance that he was dead alright. We riz up instantly, and it was a race to a finish twixt us three fer the bottom of the steps. It is useless to say we was furst past the post by two lengths. We didn’t skeer that couple any wuse than the corpse skeered us. We walked through the country to Bolivar and wired for our clothes by express.

* * * * *

Hello, is this you, Abe?

Sure, it’s me.

This is Abe Potash I’m talking to?

Yes, yes. What do you want?

Well, Abe, I want to borrow fifty dollars for—

All right. I’ll tell him as soon as he comes in.

* * * * *

While a customer in one of our prominent stores on Fourth street, I saw an unusually amazing incident. A lady of stupendous dimensions, stylishly attired, entered the store and seated herself to be waited upon. Soon a bald-headed clerk came up to serve her. After rejecting this pair and that, she decided on some brown oxfords. The clerk knelt down to lace them, and she gazed about the room. Suddenly she looked down and saw the bald head. Thinking that it was her roller-topped knee, she modestly drew her skirt over it.

* * * * *

Colonel Phil Thompson tells of the trials experienced by a friend of his who recently acquired a new stenographer. The dear little thing is a trifle weak in orthography but Thompson’s friend has been loath to call her down, in view of the fact that she tries so hard to please. He is too big-hearted to discharge the girl, for she needs the money; so he corrects the spelling.

Recently, however, he was forced to call her attention to the fact that in a letter of some seventy-five words, she had committed eight errors, among which was “fourty”.

My, my! exclaimed the friend. This won’t do, you know; I can’t stand for forty spelt this way!

The willing worker looked over his shoulder at the offending word; Gracious! she exclaimed, how careless of me! I left out the “gh,” didn’t I?

* * * * *

Ikey—I got into a fight last week, and a man kicked me in de synagogue.

Jakey—Ver is de synagogue?

Ikey—In de temple.

* * * * *

This is the true story of a resourceful motorist. Of the ethics of it, there is no condoning. A traffic law in a New England city forbids the parking of cars on the principal business street. A citizen who understood this, was sure he could stop his car, deliver a message and be back in his seat all in a moment. But he was detained. Also he forgot. When he came out a policeman stood by his automobile. Did the man go to his car? He did not. He hurried to his office: He telephoned to police headquarters: My car (giving a detailed description) has been stolen. In a half hour this reply: An officer has found your car. It is here at headquarters. Come and get it. He did. Profuse thanks. Was it clever?

* * * * *

A certain young man wrote the following letter to a prominent business firm, ordering a razor.

Dear Sirs—Please find enclosed 50c for one of your razors as
advertised and oblige,

JOHN JONES.

P. S.—I forgot to enclose the 50c but no doubt a firm of your
high standing will send the razor anyway.

The firm addressed received the letter and replied as follows—

Dear Sir—Your most valued order received the other day and will
say in reply that we are sending the razor as per request, and
hope that it will prove satisfactory.

P. S.—We forgot to enclose the razor, but no doubt a man with
your cheek will have no need of it.

* * * * *

Can any lady or gentleman in the audience lend me a ten dollar gold piece? asked the professor of magic.

On vot, eagerly shouted the pawnbroker in the front row.

* * * * *

A Philadelphia business man tells this story on himself.

You know in this city there are two telephone companies, he said, and in my office I have a telephone of each company. Last week I hired a new office boy, and one of his duties was to answer the telephone. The other day, when one of the bells rang, he answered the call and then came in and told me I was wanted on the ’phone by my wife.

Which one? I inquired quickly, thinking of the two telephones, of course.

Please, sir, stammered the boy, I don’t know how many you have.

* * * * *

William Blue was an engineer in the employ of one of the trunk railway lines in this State. One of his duties was to haul the through freight over the Western division, and his pet engine was No. 2. One night he had an accident. One of the flues in the boiler of his pet engine flew out and he was stalled, blocking the main line. He reported the matter to the division superintendent unwittingly as follows—

Engine two blew out a flue; what’ll I do?—Bill Blue.

Then he sat down to wait instructions. This is what came over the wires from the superintendent’s office twenty minutes later.

Bill Blue—You plug that flue in engine two and pull her through in time to get out of the way of twenty-two.

This order is stuck up in the cab of engine 2.

* * * * *

Friend—My, vot a rotten cigar you giff me.

Storekeeper—You should worry. You got vun, I got five hundred!

* * * * *

Mother—Rachel, your beau was here to see you last night.

Kate—Oh, was he?

Mother—No, not Wuzzy, Izzy.

* * * * *

I hear you give your little boy a quarter every week for behavior, Ignatz.

Sure, but I fool him. I told him the gas meter was a little bank I bought him.

* * * * *

At the luncheon to Nahum Sokolow, the Jewish journalist, attended by New York editors, Adolph Ochs, of the Times, told of a Jew who came to Bishop Potter, stating that he desired to embrace Christianity. The Bishop arranged for him to have a talk with one of the curates, but the applicant was insistent and said he wanted to join right away.

Why are you in such a hurry? inquired the Bishop.

Well, my family done me dirt and I want to disgrace them.

* * * * *

A dying man once sent for an Arkansas editor, who hastened to the death-bed with more alacrity, as he had no heirs. I’m glad you’ve come, said the old man in a deathly whisper. Come closer. The editor approached. You know I have worked hard, and that I have earned every cent I have got. Some time ago, you remember, I subscribed for your paper for six months. There is just one more number due me, and as I am dying and can’t wait until your next issue comes out, just give me a nickel and we’ll call it square.

* * * * *

The following missive was received by the forest ranger of the Pasadena district and read recently at the annual dinner of the Sierra Club in Los Angeles. Kind and Respected Cir—

I see in the paper that a man named J⸺ S⸺ was atacted and et up by a bare whose cubs he was trying to git when the she bare came up and stopt him by eatin him up in the mountains near your town. What i want to know is did it kill him or was he only partly et up am he from this place and all about the bare. I don’t know but what he is a distant husband of mine. My first husband was of that name and I supposed he was killed in the war but the name of the man the bare et being the same i thought it might be him after all and i thought to know if he wasn’t killed either in the war or by the bare for i have been married twice since and their ought to be divorce papers got out by him or me if the bare did not eat him all up. If it is him you will know it by him having six toes on the left foot. He also sings base and has a spread eagle tattoed on his front chest and a ankor on his right arm which you will know him if the bare did not eat up these parts of him. If alive don’t tell him I am married to J⸺ W⸺ for he never liked J⸺. Mebbe you had better let on as if i am ded but find out all you can about him without him knowing anything what it is for. That is if the bare did not eat him all up. If it did i don’t see you can do anything and you needn’t take any trouble. My respeks to your family and please ancer back.

P. S.—Was the bare killed. Also was he married again and did he leave any property worth me laying claim to?

* * * * *

An advertisement in a newspaper calling for a “first-class bookkeeper at $3 a week” drew forth the following answer, the only one attracted by the munificent salary.

I am a young man, thirty-seven years of age, having had a business experience of twenty-three years, being connected with the United States Embassy at Madagascar, and feel confident if you will give me a trial I can prove my worth to you. I am not only an expert bookkeeper, proficient stenographer and typewriter, excellent operator and erudite college graduate, but have several other accomplishments which might make me desirable. I am an experienced snow shoveler, a first-class peanut roaster, have some knowledge of removing superfluous hair and clipping puppy dogs’ ears, have a medal for reciting “Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight.” Am a skilled chiropodist and practical farmer, can also cook, take care of horses, crease trousers, open oysters and repair umbrellas. Being possessed of great physical beauty, I would not only be useful, but would be ornamental as well, lending to the sacred precincts of your office that delightful artistic charm that a Satsuma vase or stuffed billy-goat would. As to salary, I would feel I was robbing the widow and swiping the sponge cake from the orphan if I was to take advantage of your munificence by accepting the too fabulous sum of $3 per week, and I would be entirely willing to give you my services for less, and by accepting $1.37 per week would give you an opportunity of not only increasing your donation to the church, pay your butcher and keep up your life insurance, but also to found a home for indigent fly-paper salesmen and endow a free bed in the cat home.

* * * * *

Private John Allen takes a deep interest in the advertising business. Advertisements that he deems exceptionally good he clips out and pastes in a scrap-book. As he was showing this scrap-book to a guest one day, he said:

But the best ad I know of is not in here. For it wasn’t written, but spoken. It earned its originator some thousands of dollars, yet I can never show it. I can only describe it, and description fails to do it justice.

It was the work of a clothier in Nashville. He had, with his partner, the first establishment in town, and the business of the firm was considered very prosperous. The two men had married sisters, and their relationship was more than friendly. Hence the greatest surprise overtook Nashville when the junior partner suddenly took out a summons and hauled his senior into court.

The senior partner is ruining the business, gossip said. He is getting softening of the brain, or paresis, or something of that sort. Now is the height of the spring season, when they ought to be making money hand over fist, but the senior’s cracked methods are spoiling everything.

So all Nashville took a tremendous interest in the case, and on the morning it was called, the courtroom was crowded as in a murder trial.

The junior partner’s complaint was presented strongly and directly. He showed that goods were being sacrificed at a fraction of their value, and he asked that this ruinous trading be stopped, lest ruin ensue.

The defendant’s lawyer, an able fellow, secured an adjournment for three weeks.

On the announcement of this adjournment, the junior partner gave a loud groan. He leaped to his feet, and rushed out like one demented, shouting as he went:

Merciful heavens, then the sacrifice must still go on!

I don’t need to tell you how much business that firm did in the next three weeks.

* * * * *

Man, born of woman, is of a few days and no teeth. And, indeed, it would be money in his pocket sometimes if he had less of either. As for his days, he wasteth one-third of them, and as for his teeth, he has convulsions when he cuts them, and as the last one comes through, lo, the dentist is twisting the first one out, and the last end of that man’s jaw is worse than the first, being full of porcelain and a roof-plate built to hold blackberry seeds.

Stone bruises line his pathway to manhood; his father boxes his ears at home, the big boys cuff him in the play ground, and the teacher whips him in the school-room. He buyeth Northwestern at 110, when he hath sold short at 96, and his neighbor unloadeth upon him Iron Mountain at 65⅝, and it straightway breaketh down to 52¼. He riseth early and sitteth up late that he may fill his barns and store-houses, and lo! his children’s lawyers divide the spoil among themselves and say, Ha, ha! He growleth and is sore distressed because it raineth, and he beateth upon his breast and sayeth, My crop is lost! because it raineth not. The late rains blight his wheat and the frost biteth his peaches. If it be so that the sun shineth, even among the nineties, he sayeth, Woe is me, for I perish, and if the northwest wind sigheth down in forty-two below he crieth, would that I were dead! If he wear sackcloth and blue jeans men say he is a tramp, and if he goeth forth shaven and clad in purple and fine linen all the people cry, shoot the dude!

He carrieth insurance for twenty-five years, until he hath paid thrice over for all his goods, and then he letteth his policy lapse one day, and that same night fire destroyeth his store. He buildeth him a house in Jersey, and his first born is devoured by mosquitoes; he pitcheth his tent in New York, and tramps devour his substance. He moveth to Kansas, and a cyclone carrieth his house away over into Missouri, while a prairie fire and ten million acres of grasshoppers fight for his crop. He settleth himself in Kentucky, and is shot the next day by a gentleman, a colonel and a statesman, because, sah, he resembles, sah, a man, sah, he did not like, sah. Verily, there is no rest for the sole of his feet, and if he had it all to do over again he would not be born at all, for “the day of death is better than the day of one’s birth.”

_Juvenile Jests_

Teacher—Who can make a sentence with gruesome in it?

Ikey—The man stopped shaving and grew some whiskers.

* * * * *

Visitor—How’s your brother, Tommy?

Tommy—He’s in bed; he hurt himself.

Visitor—How did he do it?

Tommy—We were playing who could lean furthest out of a window, and he won.

* * * * *

A lad sat on the floor playing. Suddenly he set up a howl.

Henry, what is the matter? asked the mother.

The cat scratched me.

Why, the cat is not here. When did she scratch you?

Yesterday.

Well, why are you crying now?

’Cause I forgot it then.

* * * * *

This bit of brightness is said to have cropped out in a conversation between two misses not old enough to go to school.

What makes a horse act naughty when he sees an auto?

It is this way—Horses is used to seein’ other horses pull wagons, and they don’t know what to think of ’em goin’ along without a horse. Guess if you saw a pair of pants walkin’ down the street without a man in ’em you’d be scared, too.

* * * * *

Little Elsie—Brother Johnny can’t come to school; he has diphtheria.

Teacher—Indeed! Where did he get it?

Little Elsie—In the neck.

* * * * *

The passionate rhythms of “The Merry Widow” waltz floated through the office, and the boss looked up from his desk impatiently.

Frederic, he said, I wish you wouldn’t whistle at your work.

I ain’t workin’, sir, the office boy replied calmly. I’m only just whistlin’.

* * * * *

After a teacher had recited “The Landing of the Pilgrims,” she requested each pupil to try to draw from his or her imagination, a picture of Plymouth Rock.

Most of them went to work at once, but one little fellow hesitated, and at length raised his hand.

Well, Willie, what is it? asked the teacher.

Please, ma’am, do you want us to draw a hen or a rooster?

* * * * *

Here is Jimmie’s essay on pants: Pants are made for men and not for women. Women are made for men and not for pants. When a man pants for a woman and a woman pants for a man they are a pair of pants. Such pants don’t last. Pants are like molasses—they are thinner in hot weather and thicker in cold. Men are often mistaken in pants; such mistakes are breaches of promise. There has been much discussion whether pants is singular or plural. Seems to me when men wear pants it is plural, and when they don’t wear pants it is singular. Men go on a tear in their pants and it is all right, but when the pants go on a tear it is all wrong. If you want to make pants last, make the coat first.

* * * * *

Pop, I got in trouble at school today and it’s all your fault.

How’s that my son?

Well, you remember when I asked you how much a million dollars was?

Yes, I remember.

Well, teacher asked me today, and “helluva lot” isn’t the right answer.

* * * * *

The pupils of a certain school were asked to write original compositions on “kings.” The prize was carried off by the youth who handed in the following:

The most powerful king on earth, is Wor-king; the laziest, Shir-king; one of the worst kings, Smo-king; the wittiest, Jo-king; the quietest, Thin-king; the thirstiest, Drin-king; the slyest, Win-king; the noisiest, Tal-king.

* * * * *

At a public school the children were training for the annual flag day celebration. One boy, in order to show good reason why he should take a prominent part in the ceremonies, said that he had a real gun; another had a pistol; a small girl had a flag, and so on.

Finally, one tow-haired lad of six came up to the teacher, and stood waiting for her to see him.

Well, what is it? she asked.

I has a union suit, he said.

* * * * *

Now in order to subtract, explained a teacher to the class in mathematics, things always have to be of the same denomination. For instance, we couldn’t take three apples from four years, nor six horses from nine dogs.

A hand went up in the back of the room.

Well, Johnny? smiled the unsuspecting teacher.

Please, ma’am! shouted the boy, can’t you take four quarts of milk from three cows?

* * * * *

Little Elizabeth and her mother were having luncheon together, and the mother, who always tried to impress facts upon her young daughter, said—

These little sardines, Elizabeth, are sometimes eaten by the larger fish.

Elizabeth gazed at the sardines in wonder, and then asked—

But, mother, how do the large fish get the cans open?

* * * * *

A teacher had been telling her class of boys recently that worms had become so numerous that they destroyed the crops, and it was necessary to import the sparrow to exterminate them. The sparrows multiplied very fast and were gradually driving away our native birds.

Johnny was apparently very inattentive, and the teacher, thinking to catch him napping, said—

Johnny, which is worse, to have worms or sparrows?

Johnny hesitated a moment and then replied: Please, I never had the sparrows.

* * * * *

George, George, mind; your hat will be blown off if you lean so far out of the window! exclaimed a fond father to his little son, who was traveling with him in a railway carriage. Quickly snatching the hat from the head of the refractory youngster, papa hid it behind his back.

There, now, the hat has gone! he cried, pretending to be angry. And George immediately set up a howl. After a time the father remarked—

Come, be quiet; if I whistle your hat will come back again.

Then he whistled and replaced the hat on the boy’s head. There, it’s back again, you see. Afterward, while papa was talking to mamma, a small, shrill voice was heard saying—

Papa, papa, I’ve thrown my hat out of the window! Whistle again, will you?

_Frenzied Finance_

The bank teller in a snippy way said: But I don’t know you, madam!

The woman was red-headed, and she got red-headed in a minute. She said: Oh, yes, you do. I don’t need anyone to identify me. I’m the red-headed hen next door to you whose “imps of boys” are always running across your garden. When you started to town this morning your wife said: Now, Henry, if you want a dinner fit to eat this evening, you’ll have to leave me a little money. I can’t keep this house on Christian Science.

Here is your money, interrupted the paying teller very faintly.

* * * * *

In order that his wife might become better acquainted with business methods, Mr. Ferguson handed $100 to her, and instructed her to deposit it in bank in her own name and pay her bills thereafter with checks.

Several weeks afterward she came to him in a high state of indignation.

George, she said, the other day those people down at the bank wrote me a note and told me I had overdrawn my account—whatever that is—and that I would have to send them $4.75 to balance it. I sent it to them right away, but it didn’t satisfy them. They’re bothering me about it again.

You sent the $4.75?

Yes. Same day.

Well, that’s—by the way, Laura, how did you send it?

I sent them a check for it, of course.

* * * * *

Some few days ago a Louisville banker was approached by an impecunious farmer for a loan. Now at times this banker is deaf for commercial purposes. The farmer was chronically wanting to borrow, and his security was getting shaky. I’d like to borrow five thousand, pleaded the farmer. The banker cupped his hand to his ear and said: Speak a little louder and cut down the amount.

* * * * *

Thousands of girls are sent out into the world with what is called finished educations, who cannot even give a proper receipt for money, to say nothing of drawing a promissory note, a draft or a bill, or understanding the significance and importance of business contracts.

Such a woman presented a check for payment to the paying teller of her bank. He passed it back to her with the request that she be kind enough to indorse it. The lady wrote on the back of the check, I have done business with this bank for many years, and I believe it to be all right. Mrs. James B. Brown.

Another society woman in New York presented a check for payment at the bank, and the teller told her that it was not signed. Oh, do they have to be signed? she replied. What an awful lot of red tape there is about a banking business.

I know of a lady whose husband made a deposit for her in a bank and gave her a check book so that she could pay her bills without annoying him. One day she received a notice from the bank that her account was overdrawn. She went to the bank and told the teller that there must be some mistake about it, because she still had a lot of checks left in her book. She knew so little about business that she thought she could keep drawing any amount until the checks were all gone.

Among the more recent stories of feminine banking is one of a young lady who in a fit of abstraction signed a check, Your loving Susie. A still later anecdote is this, from one of our exchanges:

A fund was being raised in New York for the benefit of sufferers by a great disaster, and a certain rich but illiterate woman was approached upon the subject.

Oh, I shouldn’t mind sending the money, she said, but I do hate to have my name in all the papers.

But that could be easily arranged, said the gentleman who had opened the subject.

Why, yes, of course, remarked the woman, I could send an anonymous check. Why didn’t I think of that before?

* * * * *

Four or five ladies bustled into a private office the other day.

What can I do for you, ladies? asked the banker pleasantly.

Why, began one of the visitors, we are taking up a subscription and we knew you wouldn’t like it if we didn’t give you an opportunity to subscribe.

The banker bowed graciously and asked: And the object? Of course it is a worthy one, or you would not be interested in it.

Yes, sir, replied the spokeswoman, we think it a very worthy object. It is to build a home for aged and indigent widows.

Excellent! Excellent! I shall take pleasure in making you out a check.

Oh, how lovely of you! exclaimed the spokeswoman when she received the bit of paper and read the amount—one hundred pounds. Oh, we didn’t expect to get that much from you. We are ever so much obliged.

So good of him! and similar exclamations were heard as the check was passed around for the admiration of the party.

But, said the lady who handled the check last, you haven’t signed it.

That is because I do not wish my benefactions known to the world, said the banker modestly. I wish to give the check anonymously. And he bowed the ladies out with great dignity.

* * * * *

In a banking office in New Orleans is an aged bookkeeper who began his connection with the business the day it was established. As the years went by, the proprietor, who had started with little, but was extremely close, amassed an enormous fortune. The bookkeeper piled up but a small amount of savings.

At last the twenty-fifth anniversary of the firm and of the bookkeeper’s services came along. He remembered it, but thought no one else would. To his surprise, the proprietor spoke of it at once.

Williams, he said, do you know what day this is?

Our twenty-fifth anniversary, sir.

It is indeed, Williams. And now I have thought to commemorate the event, and I have put in this envelope for you a small gift to express my appreciation of your faithful service.

The bookkeeper, his hopes raised high, took the envelope from his employer and opened it. The token was a photograph of the employer.

Well? demanded the donor, as the other hesitated. What do you want to say about it?

It’s just like you! murmured the bookkeeper. It’s just like you.

_Disciples of Hippocrates_

Aren’t you pretty young to be a practicing physician? asked the severe-looking female person sternly.

Well, you see, I only doctor children, said the young medico, nervously.

* * * * *

Doctor, are you sure my husband has pneumonia? I have heard of doctors treating patients for pneumonia who finally died of typhoid fever.

Well, madam, I don’t make such blunders. If I treat a patient for pneumonia, he dies of pneumonia.

* * * * *

Patient—Doctor, it hurts me to breathe. In fact, the only trouble now seems to be with my breath.

Physician—All right. I’ll give you something that will soon stop that.

* * * * *

A young doctor in a country district was called one night by an old farmer to his first case. The patient was the farmer’s son, who was lying on the bed in much pain. The young medico threw out his chest and said: This should cause you no alarm. It is nothing but a corrustified exegesis antispasmodically emanating from the physical refrigerator, producing a prolific source of irritability in the pericranial epidermis.

The farmer looked at him and replied, just what I said, but his mother thought it was the stomachache.

* * * * *

Wife—Now dear, here’s the doctor to see you.

Merchant Prince—Send him away and fetch the undertaker! You know I never deal with middlemen.

* * * * *

A doctor came up to a patient in an insane asylum, slapped him on the back and said: Well, old man, you’re all right. You can run along and write your folks that you’ll be back home in two weeks as good as new.

The patient went off gayly to write his letter. He had it finished and sealed, but when he was licking the stamp it slipped through his fingers to the floor lighted on the back of a cockroach that was passing and stuck. The patient hadn’t seen the cockroach. What he did see was his escaped postage stamp zigzagging aimlessly across the floor to the baseboard, wavering up over the baseboard and following a crooked track up the wall and across the ceiling. In depressed silence he tore up the letter that he had just written and dropped the pieces on the floor.

Two weeks! Hell! he said. I won’t be out of here in three years.

* * * * *

He had just hung out his shingle. That morning a stranger entered. The doctor asked to be excused as he hurried to the phone.

Taking down the receiver, he said: Yes, this is Dr. Whoosit. Yes, will be ready for you at two-ten this afternoon. But please be prompt, for I am very busy. Two hundred dollars? Yes, that was the estimate I gave you.

Hanging up the receiver, he turned to the stranger and rubbing his hands asked: Now, sir, what can I do for you?

Nothing, replied the stranger quietly. I only came in to connect up the telephone.

* * * * *

The following item is taken from a county officer’s health report: The patient died of blood poison from a broken ankle contracted in an automobile accident, which was a very strange occurrence, since he was struck between the lamp post and the radiator.

* * * * *

Herr Doctor, my wife and I are possessed! Can’t you cure us? What sort of a demon is it possesses you? Peasant: The fighting demon; it forces us to come to blows, and we are both sorry for it afterward. Doctor (making three times the sign of the cross): Begone, foul demon of discord, begone! So that was only the preliminary cure, now I will write a prescription for you. When the fit comes on again, the one who is not yet begun to scold and fight is to take the medicine bottle and a spoon and go out of the room, while the other remains inside. After ten minutes the first one is to come in again, count twenty-seven drops into the spoon, and give them to the other; then the latter is to take the spoon and count twenty-seven drops and give them to the first one, after which you shake hands together. Not a word to be spoken the whole time. Three months later the peasant came again with his wife: Herr Doctor, we have come to make you a present of this ham for having cured us so thoroughly! This is a true story, and occurred in Holstein.

_Legal Luminaries_

Yours is certainly an unusual case, said the lawyer, and it will be necessary to consult a number of books.

So? queried the client.

Yes, answered the legal light, and we will begin with your pocketbook.

* * * * *

He had finished his speech at a dinner party, and on seating himself a lawyer rose, shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets, as was his habit, and laughingly inquired of those present:

Doesn’t it strike this company as a little unusual that a professional humorist should be funny!

When the laughter that greeted this sally had subsided, Mark Twain drawled out—Doesn’t it strike this company as a little unusual that a lawyer should have his hands in his own pockets?

* * * * *

As a prisoner was brought before the judge for sentence the clerk happened to be absent. The judge asked the officer in charge of the prisoner what the offence was with which he was charged.

Bigotry, your honor. He’s been married to three women.

Why, officer, that’s not bigotry, said the judge, that’s trigonometry.

* * * * *

There was an old man who was charged with illicit distilling and was brought up before the court. The Judge, who was a witty fellow, asked the prisoner what was his Christian name. The prisoner replied, Joshua, and the Judge answered, Are you the man that made the sun shine? and the prisoner replied, No, sir, your honor; I’m the one that made the moonshine.

* * * * *

A jury recently met to inquire into a case of suicide. After sitting through the evidence the twelve men retired, and, after deliberating, returned with the following verdict—

The jury are all of one mind—temporarily insane!

* * * * *

In a lawsuit in Pennsylvania not long ago the question was put to a miner on the witness stand.

Were you ever hurt in the mines?

Indade I was, responded the man, I was half kilt once.

Now tell the court whether you were injured at any other time, continued the cross-examiner.

Yes. I was half kilt in another accident shortly after that.

Your Honor, smilingly interjected counsel for the other side, I object to this man’s testimony.

Upon what ground? asked the judge.

On the ground that, having been half killed twice, he is a dead man and therefore incompetent as a witness.

* * * * *

In a suit recently tried in a Virginia town a young lawyer of limited experience was addressing the jury on a point of law, when good-naturedly he turned to opposing counsel, a man of much more experience than himself, and asked—

That’s right, I believe, Colonel Hopkins?

Whereupon Hopkins, with a smile of conscious superiority, replied—

Sir, I have an office in Richmond wherein I shall be delighted to enlighten you on any point of law for a consideration.

The youthful attorney, not in the least abashed, took from his pocket a half-dollar piece, which he offered Col. Hopkins with this remark—

No time like the present. Take this, sir, tell us what you know and give me the change.

* * * * *

Secretary Elihu Root was talking about the humanity of judges.

They are humane men, he said. I could tell you many moving stories of the pain that they have suffered in the infliction of severe sentences. It is not altogether pleasant to be a judge.

That is why I can not credit a story that was told me the other day about a judge in the West. A criminal on trial before this man had been found guilty. He was told to rise, and the judge said to him—

Have you ever been sentenced to imprisonment before?

No, your honor, said the criminal, and he burst into tears.

Well, said the judge, don’t cry, you’re going to be now.

* * * * *

This story of the election expenses of a Georgia lawyer who was defeated for county commissioner in the recent primary, reaches us by way of the _Newark Ledger_ in a dispatch from Atlanta. His sworn statement runs—

Lost 1,349 hours’ sleep thinking about the election. Lost two front teeth and a whole lot of hair in a personal encounter with an opponent. Donated one beef, four shoats, and five sheep to a county barbecue. Gave away two pairs of suspenders, four calico dresses, $5 cash, and thirteen baby rattles. Kissed 126 babies. Kindled fourteen kitchen fires. Put up four stoves. Walked 4,076 miles. Shook hands with 9,508 persons. Told 10,101 lies, and talked enough to make, in print, 1,000 volumes. Attended sixteen revival meetings, and was baptized four different times by immersion, and twice some other way. Contributed $50 to foreign missions, and made love to nine grass widows. Hugged forty-nine old maids. Got dog-bit thirty-nine times, and was defeated.

* * * * *

Sam Kalleton, a member of the Arkansas Legislature, was very fond of offering amendments to bills introduced. That was the limit of his legislative capacity. One morning, after a night’s hilarity, he entered the legislative hall just as the chaplain was asking divine aid. The old man took a chew of tobacco, and listened attentively until the chaplain closed his petition with an effective recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. Mr. Speaker, said the old man, arising, I move to strike out the words daily bread, and insert as much bread as may be found necessary for twenty days. We have already done enough for the flood sufferers.

* * * * *

A prominent lawyer of New York says that many years ago he went West, but as he got no clients, and stood a good chance of starving, he decided to come East again. Without any money he boarded a train for Nashville, Tenn., intending to seek employment as reporter on one of the daily newspapers, says the _New York Telegraph_. When the conductor called for his ticket, he said—

I am on the staff of the ⸺ of Nashville. I suppose you will pass me.

The conductor looked at him sharply.

The editor of that paper is in the smoker; come with me; if he identifies you, all right.

He followed the conductor into the smoker; the situation was explained. Mr. Editor said—

Oh, yes, I recognize him as one of the staff; it is all right.

Before leaving the train the lawyer again sought the editor.

Why did you say you recognized me? I’m not on your paper.

I’m not the editor either. I’m traveling on his pass, and was scared to death lest you should give me away.

* * * * *

Judge Ben. B. Lindsey, the noted reformer of Denver, was lunching one day—it was very warm—when a politician paused beside his table.

Judge, said the politician, I see you’re drinkin’ hot cawfee. That’s a heatin’ drink.

Yes? said Judge Lindsey.

Oh, yes. In this weather you want iced drinks, judge—sharp, iced drinks. Did you ever try gin and ginger ale?

No, said the judge, smiling, but I’ve tried several fellows who have.

* * * * *

Harry Bulger has recently added to his repertoire of stories a new character vignette which has been received with laughter in the South. As Mr. Bulger will be the guest of the Forty Club in Chicago during the “Woodland” engagement in that city, he is reserving this story for the post-prandial gossip.

It relates largely to a lawyer and a Jewish client during a civil action. The attorney, watching the evidence and the countenance of the Judge, whose reputation for severity was well known in the district, whispered to his Hebrew client.

It looks very bad. We are going to lose the case. Whereupon the client responded.

Vell, I will send the Judge a box of cigars.

Great heavens, no! That would end it.

The following day much to the surprise of the plaintiff’s attorney, the decision was rendered for his client. Meeting his Jewish friend later the lawyer exclaimed—

By Jove, I cannot understand this decision. Beats anything I ever heard. Tell me, did you send the Judge a box of cigars?

Certainly. Of course I did.

What?

Yes, but I sent it with the card of the other fellow in it.

_Clerical Comicalities_

The blessed man that preached for us last Sunday, said Mr. Partington, served the Lord for thirty years—first as a circus rider, and then as a locust-preacher, and last as an exhauster.

* * * * *

Patience—Is your preacher sensational?

Patrice—I should say so! Why, he preached a sermon last Sunday and he took for his subject, It’s hard to keep a good man down. Well? Oh, it was all about Jonah and the whale.

* * * * *

A series of revival services were being held recently in a Missouri city, and placards giving notice of the services were posted in conspicuous places. One day the following notice was posted:

Hell, Its Location and Absolute Certainty. Thomas Jones, barytone soloist, will sing, Tell Mother I’ll Be There.

* * * * *

There was once a clergyman’s son, who was educated for the ministry. He finished his theological course at Oxford and returned home with the Oxford accent. On the following Sunday he was invited to fill his father’s pulpit for the morning service. The young preacher announced his text as follows: And they wequiahed of him Bawabbas. Now Bawabbas was a wobbah. At the evening service the old man resumed his pulpit and preached an eloquent sermon from the text, O Lord, have mercy upon us, for this my son is lunatic and we are sore distressed.

* * * * *

When was the automobile first mentioned in the Bible?

When Elijah crossed the river Jordan by a Ford and went up on high.

* * * * *

Clergyman—examining a Sunday School, Now, can any of you tell me what are the sins of omission?

Small Scholar—Yes, sir, they’re the sins you ought to have committed, and haven’t.

* * * * *

Rev. Goodman—Mr. Slick, our Sunday-school superintendent is a tried and trusted employe of yours, is he not?

Banker—He was trusted, and he’ll be tried if we’re only fortunate enough to catch him.

* * * * *

It is reported that Pope Gregory XVI offered his snuff-box to a Cardinal, who declined it, saying: No, your holiness, I have not that vice. To which the Pope replied in thoroughly human way, if it had been a vice you would have had it.

* * * * *

Mama, said little Elsie, do men ever go to heaven?

Why of course, my dear. What makes you ask?

Because I never see any pictures of angels with whiskers.

Well, said the mother, thoughtfully, some men do go to heaven, but they get there by a close shave.

* * * * *

The Bishop, addressing the little folks at the children’s service, became impressive. Only think, children, he said, in Africa, there are 10,000,000 square miles of territory without a single Sunday school where little girls and boys can spend their Sunday afternoons. Now, what should we all try to save up our money for?

The children (unanimously)—To go to Africa.

* * * * *

At a sewing circle all the women were talking, and some of the subjects got hopelessly confused. For instance, the subject of crickets and church choirs. I never heard such a horrid noise as they made last Sunday, said one woman, referring to the choir. Nor I, said another, thinking she referred to the fall crickets. They say they make that noise with their hind legs.

* * * * *

An evangelist who was conducting nightly services announced that on the following evening he would speak on the subject of Liars. He advised his hearers to read in advance the seventeenth chapter of Mark.

The next night he arose and said: I am going to preach on Liars tonight, and I would like to know how many read the chapter I suggested. A hundred hands were upraised.

Now, he said, you are the very persons I want to talk to—there isn’t any seventeenth chapter of Mark.

* * * * *

A Baltimore man tells us of attending a church on one occasion when the minister delivered a sermon of but ten minutes’ duration—a most unusual thing for him.

Upon the conclusion of his remarks the minister had added: I regret to inform you, brethren that my dog, who appears to be particularly fond of paper, this morning ate that portion of my sermon that I have not delivered.

After the service, the clergyman was met at the door by a man who, as a rule, attended divine service in another parish. Shaking the good man by the hand, he said:

Doctor, I should like to know whether that dog of yours has pups. If so, I want to get one to give to my minister.

* * * * *

A clergyman preached a rather long sermon from the text, Thou art weighed in the balance 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 started, whereupon the preacher stopped his sermon and said: That is right gentlemen; as fast as you are weighed, pass out! He continued his sermon some time after that, but no one disturbed him by leaving.

* * * * *

Not a few preachers would be glad to be the victims of such a practical joke as was recently played upon the Rev. Mr. Hageman, of Oxford, Mich. At the annual meeting of the church of which he is pastor the question of hiring a preacher comes up for discussion.

At the last meeting of this society, when the subject was brought up, a good deacon arose and said: All those in favor of retaining Brother Hageman for another year—at the same salary—will please rise.

Not a person rose, and the minister, who was present, felt as uncomfortable as possible, and heartily wished himself anywhere else. Then the good deacon who had put the question arose again and said, with a twinkle of the eye:

I see not one favors that motion, so I will put it again in this way: All those in favor of keeping the Rev. Mr. Hageman—at an increased salary—will please rise.

Everyone got upon his feet. Then it dawned upon Mr. Hageman that he had been the victim of a joke, and a smile lighted his eye, and the color returned to his cheeks. Some of his best friends had planned the surprise, and the little scheme had worked to perfection.

* * * * *

The deacons and other officers of a church had met to discuss the best method of getting rid of a pastor who had worn out his usefulness. After various methods had been suggested without any of them seeming feasible, one brother, who was a good deal of a wag, said:

I tell you what to do. Let’s pay him all his salary in arrears and raise him to a thousand a year and he will drop dead.

* * * * *

A certain Duluth clergyman was a rather prosy speaker, but occasionally he proved that he had ready wit. One evening he was addressing his congregation on the beauty of leading an upright life, when he suddenly paused and beckoned to the sexton. Brown, said he, in a clear, distinct tone of voice, open a couple of windows on each side of the church, please. Beg your pardon, sir! exclaimed the sexton, with a look of great surprise. Did I understand you to say, open the windows? It is a very bitter cold night, sir. Yes, I am well aware of that, Brown, was the cold, hard reply of the clergyman, as he gazed around the church, but it is not healthy to sleep with the windows shut! We refrain from going any deeper into personalities.

* * * * *

The late Bishop Beckwith, of Georgia, was fond of his gun, and spent much of his time hunting, says Representative Adamson. One day the Bishop was out with his dog and gun, and met a member of his parish, whom he reproved for his inattention to his religious duties. You should attend church and read your Bible, said Bishop. I do read my Bible, Bishop, was the answer, and I don’t find any mention of the Apostles going a-shooting. No, replied the Bishop, the shooting was very bad in Palestine, so they went fishing instead.

* * * * *

A preacher who went to a Kentucky parish where the parishioners bred horses was asked to invite the prayers of the congregation for Lucy Grey. He did so. They prayed three Sundays for Lucy Grey. On the fourth he was told he need not do it any more.

Why, said the preacher, is she dead?

No, answered the man, she won the Derby.

* * * * *

The Rev. Mr. Spicer had for three days enjoyed the telephone, which had been his last gift from an admiring parishioner. He had been using it immediately before going to church.

When the time came for him to announce the hymn he rose and with his usual impressive manner read the words. Then in a crisp, firm tone he said, Let us all unite in hymn six double o; sing three.

* * * * *

That Henry Ward Beecher was spared much embarrassment by his quickness at repartee is illustrated by the following story:

One evening as he was in the midst of an impassioned speech some one attempted to interrupt him by suddenly crowing like a rooster. It was done to perfection; a number of people laughed in spite of themselves, and the speaker’s friends felt that in a moment the whole effect of the meeting, and of Mr. Beecher’s thrilling appeals might be lost. The orator, however, was equal to the occasion. He stopped, listened till the crowing ceased, and then, with a look of surprise, pulled out his watch.

Morning already, he said; my watch is only at 10. But there can be no mistake about it. The instincts of the lower animals are infallible.

There was a roar of laughter. The lower animal in the gallery collapsed, and Mr. Beecher was able to resume as if nothing had occurred.

* * * * *

The maid had been using surreptitiously the bathtub of her employer, an elderly bishop. He was a bachelor, very fastidious about his toilet, and desired the exclusive use of his tub.

He reprimanded the maid with much indignation:

What distresses me most, Mary, is that you have done this behind my back.

* * * * *

A certain minister in a certain flock took permanent leave of his congregation in the following manner: