An Irishman, who was very drunk, was riding on the back platform of an
old-fashioned trolley car, and with every pitch and swerve he would sway
and nearly fall off. The conductor’s warning to be seated inside were
waived aside with “I’m all right.”
Soon the car swung around a curve where the bank was steep and rocky. The
Irishman swayed and pitched head-long down the bank, being badly bruised
and knocked unconscious. While being carried back up the bank he regained
consciousness and asked: “Was anyone hurt in the wreck?”
“There wasn’t any wreck,” replied the conductor. “Begorra!” exclaimed the
Irishman: “If I had known that I wouldn’t have jumped.”
_The City of Lost Angels_
_The following article, written by Rev. Golightly Morrill, was
inspired by a tour he made of the movie camps two years ago. We
cannot agree that Rev. Morrill’s description fits the present
day Hollywood and Los Angeles. Indeed, we found the situation
quite pleasing. It is true that Los Angeles is brimful of wim,
wigor and witality, and why shouldn’t it be? If one was to take
a thousand of the world’s most beautiful women and implant them
on Robbinsdale’s virgin soil, or in any other town, Rev. Morrill
would find as much to scorch his burning pen. So before you read
this, gentle reader, let’s give three cheers for California.—The
Editor._