Say, that reminds me of a friend of mine who is the most spiteful cuss
alive.
The other day he went to visit his uncle whose name is John Smith. He
hadn't been to see him in so long that he mistook the house, went up the
stoop of the house next door, and rang the bell.
A maid came to the door, evidently very much out of humor.
"Is this John Smith's house?" he asked.
"No, it ain't," she snapped, and slammed the door in his face.
Smith walked the distance of several doors, then went back and rang the
same bell.
The identical girl came to the door, and Smith up and said:
"Who the devil said it was John Smith's?" and walked away.
Smith has a wife who is dead stuck on fortune tellers and palmists.
The other day she called upon an East Indian Prince on Thompson Street
and had her fortune told.
Among other things, he told her that she would have visitors soon who
would come to stay. She couldn't think who it could be.
One night Smith came home, and his wife rushed up to him and cried:
"Now, don't say again there is nothing in fortune telling. He told me
that we would have visitors who'd come to stay, and we have. Our cat has
just had kittens."
[Illustration]
Another time she went to a palmist, who rambled on telling her the usual
stuff they tell every one.
Finally, she says:
"There is a line on your hand that indicates you are a very beautiful
woman."
"Does my hand tell that?" says Smith's wife.
"Sure," says the palmist. "You don't suppose I could tell that by
looking at your face, do you?"
Yeow--by James, I thought I heard a cat that time.
[Illustration]
Say, I had an accident with a cat the other night, and I'm nervous for
fear the S. P. C. A. will get after me.
You see I came home pretty early and, just as I got my key in the door,
I heard something behind me.
I didn't pay any attention, and as I opened the door that something
scooted past me and slipped upstairs.
[Illustration]
I took off my boot, got a light, and--the rest I'll tell you in my
latest sonata, entitled:
"Oh, Bring Back My Tabby To Me."
Not a mew was heard, not a feline note,
As his corpse to the back yard I hurried;
For I laid him low with my trusty boot,
And thought it was time he was buried.
So I sallied forth, in the dead of the night,
My head meanwhile cautiously turning,
For I feared that his mistress, the old maid next door,
Might catch on and give me a burning.
No orthodox coffin enclosed the defunct,
Not in paper or rag did I wind him;
But I shoveled him into his cold, narrow bed,
Where no one was likely to find him.
Yes, softly she'll call to the spirit that's gone,
From his new home in vain to allure.
But little he'll care; for Tom will sleep on--
He has an illness no doctor can cure.
[Illustration]
That's a pretty good song, if I do say so myself. I always feel like
laughing when I sing it, though. It reminds me of my dear departed
friend, Tom O'Moore.
This Tom was the brightest fellow that ever lived.
One day he was greatly troubled with an aching tooth. He went to the
dentist and exhibited his swollen jaw.
"Which tooth do you want extracted?" asked the dentist.
Tom pointed to a tooth opposite the swelling.
"Why," says the dentist, "the swelling is on the other side."
[Illustration]
"Och," says Tom, "is it that small lump you mane, that's nothin'. That's
only where Bridget hit me with the lifter."
Tom had the troublesome tooth taken out and left the place.
Outside, he met his dear friend O'Holleran who, as he saw Tom, yelled:
"I say, Tom, did you hear of the frightful miscarriage of justice that
McCarthy was the victim of?"
"No," says Tom, "what was it?"
"Well," says O'Holleran, "they locked poor Mac up for being drunk when
he was clane sober."
"Begob," says Tom, "I don't belave it at all, at all. Mac must have been
drunk to let them lock him up when he was sober."
"I say, Tom," says O'Holleran, "do you believe in drames?"
"Sure, I do," says Tom. "Whoi?"
"Then what's it a sign of when a married man drames he's a bachelor?"
"Begob," says Tom, "it's a sign of disappointment--when he wakes up."
"Do you know, Tom," says O'Holleran, "I'd give a hundred dollars to know
the exact spot I'm going to die on."
"Whoi?" says Tom.
"Whoi, you gossoon, I'd never go near the ould spot at all, at all."
[Illustration]
Tom and O'Holleran took a walk through the suburbs, and came upon some
blackberry bushes laden with half-ripe fruit.
"I say," says O'Holleran, "what kind of bushes do you call those, Tom?"
"Whoi, you fule," says Tom, "they're blackberries."
"Get out," says O'Holleran, "they're red."
"Sure," says Tom, "but every fule knows that blackberries are always red
when they're green."
A little way beyond, they came to a crossroad. Tom said they ought to go
to the right and O'Holleran said to the left.
They argued for a while, and Tom says:
"I'll tell you what we'll do. You go by one and I'll take the other. If
I get home first, I'll put a chalk mark on the door, and if you get
there first you rub it out."
[Illustration]
Tom recently imported one of his poor relatives to this country. His
name was Pat Sullivan.
Pat was a very thick Irishman, and as he had never seen a railroad in
Erin-Go-Bra-a-a-a-ha, he couldn't get it into his head how it worked.
Finally Tom took him up a railroad track to explain the matter to him.
When they were rounding a curve, between two high embankments, a train
came thundering behind them.
[Illustration]
"Run up the bank for your life," cried Tom, and set a good example by
doing it himself.
Pat, however, dug straight down the track, and it was not long before
the train overtook him and hurled him forty feet away.
"Ye lobster," says Tom, "whoi didn't you run up the bank as I told you?"
"Begob," says Pat, "if I couldn't beat that bloomin' thing on the level,
what chance did I stand running uphill?"
By the way, did you ever get into one of those lunch counter,
go-outside-and-get-something-fit-to-eat restaurants? I did, and it's a
regular circus. If you've never been, you want to take it in.
The other day I had sixteen cents with which to get something to eat,
and I thought I'd chance it.
[Illustration]
I stepped into one of these holy terrors and sat down on a revolving
stool similar to those they have in dry goods stores.
These seats are placed so closely together that your neighbor's business
is your own.
You try to eat your soup. He nudges you and sends it back in your plate.
He tries to eat his pork and beans. You nudge him and he fishes in his
vest pocket for pork, and down his shirt front for beans.
Well, I picked up the bill of fare and glanced over it. Really, I
hadn't been out late for a week and I didn't know what to make of it.
[Illustration]
The first entree was:
"Omelette a la Creole."
"Good heavens!" I thought. "Do they slice Creoles and serve them as
omelettes?"