A Darky and his brown sweetheart, followed by three pickaninnies, applied
to the clerk of a Southern court house for a license to wed.
The clerk eyed the assemblage doubtfully. “Whose children are these?” he
asked.
“Dey our’n,” was the ready response from the man.
The clerk was scandalized, being new at his post. “You ought to be
ashamed of yourselves, waiting to get married till you have a family half
grown—”
“Jedge, you’ll have to excuse dat,” interrupted the “bride,” sweetly. “De
roads out our way is so bad!”
* * * * *