He has a great flock of homing pigeons.
The other day he bet a fellow named Robinson, that he could select two
out of the bunch that would come home no matter where they were taken.
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Robinson thought a while, and then said he'd bet they couldn't come home
from Coney Island. I held the stakes.
When the birds were selected and put in the basket, Robinson slyly
clipped their wings.
The next day the fellow came to me and claimed the bet.
"What!" says I. "Did those birds come home?"
"Sure," says he. "But their feet are awfully sore."
Say, the other night I was coming down from Yonkers in a trolley car.
No, I wasn't loaded. Do you think every fellow who goes to Yonkers, has
to get loaded to drown his sorrow? No, I was quite sober.
One fellow got up in a hurry to leave and brought up plump against a
stunning Fire-Island Cinnamon-Bear blond, on the platform.
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"It's a wonder you wouldn't be careful," says she of the red cranium.
"I am," says he, "but I was dazzled by your head-light."
The ruddy complexioned damsel came in and sat beside me.
In the natural course of events we got to talking and swapped childhood
memories.
She told me that she was married, but didn't live with her husband.
"In that case," says I, "you must be a grass widow."
"Why, yes," she assented. "By the way, are you a lawn mower?"
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