A colored trooper of Camp Kearney, California, wanted to visit his
sweetheart in Los Angeles, but as he couldn’t get a furlough, he decided
to go A.W.O.L.
The guard at the gate stopped him, and demanded to see the trooper’s pass.
The black man pulled out a razor.
“Brudder,” he warned, “mah mudder’s dead and am in Heaben. Mah faddah’s
dead and am in Hell, but mah gal am alive and in Los Angeles. And ah’s
gwine to see one of dem three tonight.”
* * * * *
Following is a familiar conversation heard within a modern apartment
building where so many home-made hooch parties are held:
Voice from without: “Cut out that noise or I’ll have you put out of this
flat.”
Voice from within: “We should worry—we’ve been put out of better flats
than this.”
_Our Rural Mail Box_
=Dear Bill=—You may be witty, but the guy who wrote “Snowbound” was
Whittier.
* * * * *
=Marjie=—You naughty girl!
* * * * *
=Jo-Jo=—You can call it Spanish onions or Spanish fly or any other old
thing you want, old dear.
* * * * *
=Ted Mann=—If your sweetheart likes music, even though your voice is
poor, you can still sing to her with much feeling.
* * * * *
=Lonesome Jack=—You ought to be able to get the inspiration you want on
the beach at Miami or at Ocean Park and Redondo.
* * * * *
=Parliamentarian=—The rules state that you put your hand up first and
then ask the question.
* * * * *
=Shakespeareson=—Don’t get hot under the collar. You ask us what we did
with your poem entitled “An Ode to Oblivion.” Our reply is: It reached
its destination.
* * * * *