The rolling was constant and seemed to get worse as time went on. At
last the good man got thoroughly frightened. He believed they were
destined for a watery grave, so he went to the captain and asked if he
might have prayers. The captain took him by the arm and led him to the
forecastle, where the tars were singing and swearing. “There,” said
he, “when you hear the men swearing you may know there is no danger.”
The clergyman went back feeling better, but still the storm increased
and his alarm also. Disconsolate, he managed to stagger to the
forecastle again, where he heard the sailors swearing as hard as ever.
“Mary,” he said to his sympathetic wife as he crawled back to his
berth, “Mary, thank God, they’re swearing yet.”
* * * * *
“Hawaiian servants,” said a woman with some experience of them, “are
the best in the world, but they are strangely unsophisticated,
strangely naive. They insist on calling you by your first name. Ours
were always saying to my husband, ‘Yes, John,’ or ‘all right, John,’
and to me ‘very well, Ann,’ or ‘Ann, I am going out.’ At last I got
tired of this and to John, when we got a new cook, I said: Don’t ever
call me by my first name in the cook’s presence. Then, perhaps, not
knowing my name, he’ll have to say ‘Mrs.’ to me. So John was careful
to address me as ‘dearie,’ or ‘sweetheart,’ the watchful chap gave me
no title at all. One day we had some English officers to dine. I told
them how I had overcome, in my new cook’s case, the native servants’
abuse of their employer’s Christian names, and I said, By this
servant, at least, you won’t hear me called ‘Ann.’” Just then the new
cook entered the room. He bowed to me respectfully and said:
“‘Sweetheart, dinner is served!’
“‘What?’ I stammered.
“‘Dinner is served, dearie!’ answered the cook.”
* * * * *
Early one morning, on the second day out, a terribly seasick
passenger, pale and hollow-eyed, came out of his stateroom and ran
into a lady, who was coming along the passageway, clad in the
scantiest raiment. She screamed and started to run. “Don’t be
alarmed,” groaned the man. “Don’t be alarmed, madam; I shall never
live to tell it.”
* * * * *
Mike and Pat worked for a wealthy farmer. They planned to turn
burglars and steal the money which the farmer had hid in one of the
rooms of his house. They waited until midnight, then started to do the
job.
In order to get the money they had to pass the farmer’s bedroom. Mike
said, “I’ll go first, and if it’s all right you can follow and do just
the same as I.”
Mike started to pass the room. Just as he got opposite the door the
floor creaked. This awoke the farmer, who called out, “Who’s there?”
Mike answered with a “meaow!” (imitating a cat). The farmer’s wife
being awake, too, said, “Oh, John, it’s the cat,” and all was quiet.
Now Pat started to pass the door, and as he got opposite it the floor
creaked again. The farmer called out again, louder than before, “Who’s
there?”
Pat answered, “Another cat.”
* * * * *
Softleigh--“Good evening, Mrs. Moran. I came to see if your daughter,
Miss Mabel, would go for a walk with me.”
Miss Mabel--“How do you do, Mr. Softleigh? I shall be delighted.
Mama, do I look fit to go to a restaurant?”
* * * * *
They were on their honeymoon. He had bought a catboat and had taken
her out to show her how well he could handle a boat, putting her to
tend the sheet. A puff of wind came, and he shouted in no uncertain
tones, “Let go the sheet.” No response. Then again, “Let go that
sheet, quick.” Still no movement. A few minutes later, when both were
clinging to the bottom of the overturned boat, he said:
“Why didn’t you let go that sheet when I told you to, dear?”
“I would have,” said the bride, “if you had not been so rough about
it. You ought to speak more kindly to your wife.”
* * * * *
Madam--“Put plenty of nuts in the cake.”
Cook--“I’ll crack no more nuts to-day, me jaw hurts me already.”
* * * * *
Mother--“Alice, it is bedtime. All the little chickens have gone to
bed.”
Alice--“Yes, mama, and so has the hen.”
* * * * *
Few men have ever been so ready and witty as Mark Twain in introducing
others to public audiences. At Hartford, December 12, 1877, he
presented Mr. Howells, and, after a word or two as to his literary
work, said, “But I am not here to speak of his literary reputation,
but simply to (a long pause) back up his moral character.”
* * * * *
A Lancashire vicar was asked by the choir to call upon old Betty, who
was deaf, but who insisted in joining in the solo of the anthem, and
to ask her only to sing in the hymns. He shouted into her ear: “Betty!
I’ve been requested to speak to you about your singing.” At last she
caught the word “singing,” and replied: “Not to me be the praise, sir;
it’s a gift.”
* * * * *
The proprietor of a large drug store recently received this curt and
haughty note written in an angular, feminine hand: “I do not want
vasioline, but glisserine. Is that plain enough? I persoom you can
spell.”
* * * * *
It was in a Maine Sunday-school that a teacher recently asked a
Chinese pupil she was teaching to read if he understood the meaning of
the words “an old cow.”
“Been cow a long time,” was the prompt answer.
* * * * *
Upon moving into a new neighborhood the small boy of the family was
cautioned not to fight with his new acquaintances. One day Willie came
home with a black eye and very much spattered with dirt.
“Why, Willie,” said mama, “I thought I told you to count a hundred
before you fought!”
“I did, mama,” said Willie, “and look what Tommy Smith did while I was
counting!”
* * * * *
“The rolling stone gathers no moss,” quoted the man who had never been
outside his home county.
“True,” rejoined the globe-trotter, “but it acquires an enviable
polish.”
* * * * *
Curate (who is going to describe his little holiday in Lucerne)--“My
dear friends--I will not call you ladies and gentlemen, since I know
you too well.”
* * * * *
Daniel Purcell, the famous punster, was desired to make a pun
extempore.
“Upon what subject?” said Daniel.
“The king,” answered the other.
“Oh! sir,” said he “the king is no subject.”
* * * * *
Illustrative of “that troublesome Henglish haitch” an American
traveler relates the following:
Once I dined with an English farmer. We had ham--very delicious baked
ham. The farmer’s son soon finished his portion and passed his plate
again.
“More ’am, father,” he said.
The farmer frowned.
“Don’t say ’am, son. Say _‘am_.”
“I did say ’am,” the lad protested in an injured tone.
“You said _‘am_,” cried the father fiercely. “’Am’s what it should be.
’Am, not _‘am_.”
In the middle of the squabble the farmer’s wife turned to me and, with
a deprecatory little laugh, explained:
“They both think they’re sayin’ ’am, sir.”
* * * * *
Passing along Princes Street, Edinburgh, one day a herculean Scots
Grey stopped at the post-office and called on a street arab to polish
his boots. The feet of the dragoon were in proportion to his height
and, looking at the tremendous boots before him, the arab knelt down
on the pavement and shouted out to his chum across the road, “Jamie,
come ower an’ gie’s a hand, I’ve got an army contract.”
* * * * *
The younger man had been complaining that he could not get his wife to
mend his clothes.
“I asked her to sew a button on this vest last night, and she hasn’t
touched it,” he said. At this the older man assumed the air of a
patriarch.
“Never ask a woman to mend anything,” he said. “You haven’t been
married very long, and I think I can give you some serviceable
suggestions. When I want a shirt mended I take it to my wife, flourish
it around a little and say, ‘Where’s that rag-bag?’
“‘What do you want of the rag-bag?’ asks my wife. Her suspicions are
roused at once.
“‘I want to throw this shirt away; it’s worn out,’ I say, with a few
more flourishes.
“‘Let me see that shirt,’ my wife says then. ‘Now, John, hand it to me
at once.’
“Of course, I pass it over, and she examines it. ‘Why, John Taylor,’
she is sure to say, ‘I never knew such extravagance! This is a
perfectly good shirt. All it needs is----’ And then she mends it.”
* * * * *
A browbeating counsel asked a witness how far he had been from a
certain place. “Just four yards, two feet, and six inches,” was the
reply. “How come you to be so exact, my friend?” “I expected some fool
or other would ask me, so I measured it.”
* * * * *
“Now, see here, porter,” said the drummer briskly, “I want you to put
me off at Syracuse. You know we get in there about six o’clock in the
morning, and I may over-sleep myself. But it is important that I
should get out. Here’s a five-dollar gold piece. Now, I may wake up
hard. Don’t mind if I kick. Pay no attention if I’m ugly. I want you
to put me off the train no matter how hard I fight. Understand?”
“Yes, sah,” answered the sturdy Nubian. “It shall be did, sah!”
The next morning the coin-giver was awakened by a stentorian voice
calling: “Rochester!”
“Rochester!” he exclaimed, sitting up. “Where’s that porter?”
Hastily slipping on his trousers, he went in search of the negro, and
found him in the porter’s closet, huddled up, with his head in a
bandage, his clothes torn, and his arm in a sling.
“Well,” said the drummer, “you are a sight. Why didn’t you put me off
at Syracuse?”
“Wha-at!” gasped the porter, jumping up, as his eyes bulged from his
head. “Was you de gemman dat give me a five-dollah gold piece?”
“Of course I was, you idiot!”
“Well, den, befoah de Lawd, who was dat gemman I put off at Syracuse?”
* * * * *
A right reverend prelate, himself a man of extreme good-nature, was
frequently much vexed in spirit by the proud, froward, perverse, and
untractable temper of his next vicar. The latter, after an absence
much longer than usual, one day paid a visit to the bishop, who kindly
inquired the cause of his absence, and was answered by the vicar that
he had been confined to his house for some time past by an obstinate
stiffness in his knee. “I am glad of that,” replied the prelate; “’tis
a good symptom that the disorder has changed place, for I had a long
time thought it immovably settled in your neck.”
* * * * *
Bride--“George, dear, when we reach our destination let us try to
avoid giving the impression that we are newly married.”
George--“All right, Maud; you can carry the suitcase and umbrellas.”
* * * * *
Francis Wilson was speaking at the Players Club of New York City, not
long ago, of the all too prevalent ignorance of dramatic literature in
the country to-day.
“Why,” said Mr. Wilson, “a company was playing ‘She Stoops to
Conquer’ in a small Western town last winter when a man without any
money, wishing to see the show, stepped up to the box office and said:
“‘Pass me in, please.’
“The box office man gave a loud, harsh laugh.
“‘Pass you in? What for?’ he asked.
“The applicant drew himself up and answered, haughtily: ‘What for?
Why, because I am Oliver Goldsmith, author of the play.’
“‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied the other in a meek voice, as
he hurriedly wrote an order for a box.”
* * * * *
Lady Bountiful--“All I can say is, Jenkins, that if these people
insist on building these horrid little villas near my gates, I shall
leave the place.”
Jenkins--“Exactly what I told them at the meeting, your ladyship. I
said, ‘Do you want to drive away the goose that lays the golden
eggs?’”
* * * * *
Old Lady (to conductor--her first drive on an electric tram).--“Would
it be dangerous, conductor, if I was to put my foot on the rail?”
Conductor (an Edison manqué).--“No, mum, not unless you was to put the
other one on the overhead wire!”
* * * * *
After a few weeks at boarding-school Alice wrote home as follows:
“_Dear Father_--Though I was homesick at first, now that I am getting
acquainted, I like the school very much. Last evening Grayce and
Kathryn (my roommates) and I had a nice little chafing-dish party,
and we invited three other girls, Mayme and Carrye Miller and Edyth
Kent. I hope you are all well at home. I can’t write any more now for
I have a lot of studying to do. With lots of love to all.
“Your affectionate daughter,
“ALYSS.”
To this she received the following reply:
“_My dear Daughter Alyss_--I was glad to receive your letter and to
know that you are enjoying yourself. Uncle Jaymes came the other day,
bringing Charls and Albyrt with him. Your brother Henrie was
delighted, for he has been lonely without you. I have bought a new
gray horse whose name is Byllye. He matches nicely with old Fredde.
With much love from us all, I am,
“Your affectionate father,
“WYLLYAM JONES.”
The next letter from the absent daughter was signed “Alice.”
* * * * *
While Chauncey M. Depew was at the Omaha Exposition, he and President
Callaway of the New York Central chanced to go into a booth on the
Midway Plaisance.
It was a tame entertainment and there was only a meager attendance
when Mr. Depew and Mr. Callaway entered. Their stay would have been
very brief except for the fact that they had scarcely taken their
seats before there began a steady inpouring of people, which continued
until the small auditorium was crowded.
Taking this extraordinary increase of spectators as an indication that
something of an interesting nature was about to be disclosed, the two
New Yorkers concluded to sit it out. Half an hour’s waiting failed to
reward their patient expectancy, however, and Mr. Callaway suggested
that they move on.
Just then ex-Secretary of Agriculture J. Sterling Morton pushed his
way through the crowd, and, extending his hand to Mr. Depew,
exclaimed:
“Well, Doctor Depew, so you are really here! I thought that ‘barker’
was lying.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Mr. Depew.
“Why, the ‘barker’ for this show is standing outside and inviting the
crowd to ‘step up lively’ and pay ten cents for the privilege of
seeing the ‘great and only Chauncey M. Depew.’”
* * * * *
That the royal road to learning is full of strange pitfalls is
shown by some of the definitions and statements given by
school-children--some of whom are well along the way. The following
are _bona fide_ samples coming under the knowledge of one teacher:
“About this time Columbus was cursing around among the West Indies.”
“Jackson’s campaign in the Valley was the greatest piece of
millinery-work ever known.”
“The Valkyrie were the Choosers of the Slain, and the Valhalla the
Haulers of the Slain.”
“The eldest son of the King of France is called The Dolphin.”
“The Duke of Clarence, according to his usual custom, was killed in
battle.”
“Heathen are paragons (pagans) that wash up idle things.”
“The Indians call their women squabs.”
* * * * *
A certain curate in the course of conversation at a dinner party some
time ago remarked to a friend, “I had a curious dream last night, but
as it was about my vicar I hardly like to tell it.” On being pressed,
however, he began: “I dreamt I was dead and was on my way to Heaven,
which was reached by a very long ladder. At the foot I was met by an
angel, who pressed a piece of chalk into my hand and said, ‘If you
climb long enough you will reach Heaven, but for every sin you are
conscious of having committed you must mark a rung of the ladder with
the chalk as you go up.’ I took the chalk and started. I had climbed
up very, very far and was feeling very tired when I suddenly met my
vicar coming down. ‘Hullo!’ I said, ‘what are you going down for?’
‘More chalk.’”
* * * * *
Mrs. McKinley used to tell of a colored widow whose children she had
helped educate. The widow, rather late in life, married.
“How are you getting on?” Mrs. McKinley asked her a few months after
her marriage.
“Fine, thank yo’, ma’am,” the bride answered.
“And is your husband a good provider?”
“’Deed he am a good providah, ma’am,” was the enthusiastic reply.
“Why, jes’ dis las’ week he got me five new places to wash at.”
* * * * *
A certain curate was of a painfully nervous temperament, and in
consequence was constantly making awkward remarks--intended as
compliments--to the bishop and others. Having distinguished himself in
an unusual degree during a gathering of clergy to an afternoon tea at
the bishop’s palace, he was taken to task for his failings by a senior
curate, who was one of his companions on the way home.
“Look here, Bruce,” said the senior decidedly, “you are a donkey! Why
can not you keep quiet, instead of making your asinine remarks? I am
speaking to you now as a brother----”
Loud laughter interrupted him at this point, and for the moment he
wondered why.
* * * * *
An earnest clergyman one Sunday morning was exhorting those who had
anxious and troubled consciences to be sure and call on their pastor
for guidance and prayer.
“To show you, my brethren, the blessed results of these visits with
your pastor,” said he, “I will state to you that only yesterday a
gentleman of wealth called upon me for counsel and instruction; and
now to-day, my friends--to-day he sits among us, not only a Christian,
but a happy husband and father.”
A young lady in the audience whispered to a matron: “Wasn’t that
pretty quick work?”
* * * * *
A good story is told of the late George Augustus Sala in his early and
impecunious days. At some festive gathering where Mr. Sala was
present, Mr. Attemborough, the famous pawnbroker, was also a guest.
They recognized each other, and shook hands.
“How do you do, Mr. Attemborough,” said the journalist. “We have met
often before, but I think this is the first time I have ever seen your
legs.”
* * * * *
A clergyman in the West Country had two curates, one a comparatively
old man, the other very young. With the former he had not been able to
work agreeably; and on being invited to another living, he accepted
it, and took the young curate with him. Naturally, there was a
farewell sermon; and we can imagine the feelings of the curate who was
to be left behind when he heard the text given out, “Abide ye here
with the ass, and I and the lad will go yonder and worship.”
* * * * *
A bishop was staying with a friend in a country house. On Sunday
morning as he passed through the library he found a small boy curled
up in a big chair, deeply interested in a book.
“Are you going to church, Tom?” he asked.
“No, sir,” he replied.
“Why, I am,” said the Bishop.
“Huh,” said the boy, “you’ve got to go. It’s your job.”
* * * * *
A celebrated continental specialist to whom time was literally money
and who was possessed of a fiery temper made it a rule that all
patients should undress before entering his consulting room so as not
to waste any of his valuable time. One day a meek-looking little man
entered with all his clothes on. “What do you mean by coming in like
that?” said the doctor in a rage. “Go and strip at once!” “But I--”
faltered the man. “I tell you I’ve no time to waste,” yelled the
doctor, and the poor man left the room in haste. When his turn came he
reentered the room. “Now then,” said the doctor, “that’s better. What
can I do for you?” “I called to collect your subscription for the
benevolent society.”
* * * * *
A tall man, impatiently pacing the platform of a wayside station,
accosted a red-haired boy of about twelve.
“S-s-say,” he said, “d-d-do y-you know ha-ha-how late this train is?”
The boy grinned but made no reply. The man stuttered out something
about red-headed kids in general and passed into the station.
A stranger, overhearing the one-sided conversation, asked the boy why
he hadn’t answered the big man.
“D-d-d’ye wanter see me g-g-get me fa-fa-face punched?” stammered the
boy. “D-d-dat big g-g-guy’d tink I was mo-mo-mocking him.”
* * * * *
“Mother,” said a college student who had brought his chum home for the
holidays, “permit me to present my friend, Mr. Specknoodle.”
His mother, who was a little hard of hearing, placed her hand to her
ear.
“I’m sorry, George, but I didn’t quite catch your friend’s name.
You’ll have to speak a little louder, I’m afraid.”
“I say, mother,” shouted George, “I want to present my friend Mr.
_Specknoodle_.”
“I’m sorry, George, but Mr. ---- What was the name again?”
“MR. SPECKNOODLE!” George fairly yelled.
The old lady shook her head sadly.
“I’m sorry, George, but I’m afraid it’s no use. It sounds just like
Specknoodle to me.”
* * * * *
A young American lady on a visit to London was being shown some of the
sights by a boastful Englishman. “This is a cannon captured at Bunker
Hill,” said the Englishman. “How interesting,” exclaimed the lady. “I
must explain,” said the gentleman tauntingly, “that this cannon was
captured from the Americans by the English.” The lady quietly
retorted, “Well, you have the cannon; we have the hill.”
* * * * *
Former Congressman Fred Landis of Indiana has made a reputation for
himself as an orator. A year or so ago Landis, speaking at the
unveiling of a monument to President Lincoln, uttered the phrase,
“Abraham Lincoln--that mystic mingling of star and clod.” This was
loudly applauded. After the speech a friend of Landis approached him,
and, repeating the phrase, said: “Fred, what in the name of heaven
does that mean?” Putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder, Landis
replied: “I don’t know, really, but it gets ’em every time.”
* * * * *
Captain Foretopp tells a story of a certain noted divine who was on
his steamer when a great gale overtook them off the Oregon coast. “It
looks pretty bad,” said the Bishop to the Captain. “Couldn’t be much
worse, Bishop,” replied Foretopp.
Half an hour later the steamer was diving under the waves as if she
were a submarine and leaking like an old door. “Looks worse, I think,
Captain,” said the Bishop. “We must trust in Providence now, Bishop,”
answered Foretopp.
“Oh, I hope it has not come to that,” gasped the Bishop.
* * * * *
A couple of New Yorkers were playing golf on a New Jersey course on
Election Day when they saw a fine-appearing old gentleman looking at
them wistfully. They asked him to join the game, which he did with
alacrity. He was mild in speech and manner and played well. But once
when he had made a foozle he ejaculated vehemently the word: “Croton!”
A few minutes later when he made another bad play, he repeated:
“Croton!” The third time he said it, one of his new-made friends said:
“I don’t want to be inquisitive, but will you tell me why you say
‘Croton’ so often?” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “isn’t that the
biggest dam near New York?” He was a Presbyterian clergyman from
Brooklyn.
* * * * *
Willie, aged five, was taken by his father to his first football game.
The feature that caught his chief approval, however, did not become
evident until he said his prayers that night. To the horror of his
parents Willie prayed with true football snap:
“God bless papa,
God bless mama,
God bless Willie;
Rah! Rah! Rah!”
* * * * *
A suburban minister during his discourse one Sabbath morning said: “In
each blade of grass there is a sermon.” The following day one of his
flock discovered the good man pushing a lawn mower about his garden
and paused to say: “Well, parson, I’m glad to see you engaged in
cutting your sermons short.”
* * * * *
“Now, Bobby,” instructed the Fond Maternal Parent of the prodigy in
velveteens, bound for a children’s party, “the weather looks rather
threatening. Here is half a dollar for you, and if it rains come back
by cab.”
Two hours later it came down cats and dogs, and F. M. P. (Fond
Maternal Parent) returned devout thanks for her forethought.
But when little Bobby Velveteens returned he was wet to the skin.
“Why, Bobby,” cried the F. M. P., “didn’t you come back by cab, as I
told you?”
“Oh, yes, ma!” answered Bobby. “And it was simply splendid! I rode on
the box beside the driver!”
* * * * *
A Bishop of the Episcopal Church lived all his life unwed. A friend
mentioned that one of the States was imposing a tax on bachelors, to
be increased a certain percentage every ten years of bachelorhood, and
added: “Why, Bishop, at your age you would have to pay a hundred
dollars a year.”
“Well,” said the Bishop quietly, “it’s worth it.”
* * * * *
Two old women, on their way home from church, in a country district of
Scotland, were speaking of Napoleon’s overthrow, by the allied troops
at Waterloo. The minister had been pointing a moral by aid of the
Corsican hero’s defeat.
“Hoo is it,” said one, in her narrow way, “the Scotch aye win their
battles?”
“Weel, ye ken, it’s because they aye pray afore they go in the fecht,”
replied the other.
“Ay! But mercy, wuman, canna the French pray, as weel?”
“Nae doobt, they dae; but wha could understan’ they jabberin’ bodies?”
snapped the interrogated one, in peremptory answer.
* * * * *
Curiously worded advertisements that are funny without intent are
common in the London papers. Here are a few examples:
“A boy wanted who can open oysters with references.”
“Bulldog for sale; will eat anything, very fond of children.”
“Wanted an organist and a boy to blow the same.”
“Wanted, a boy to be partly outside and partly inside the counter.”
“Lost, near Highgate Archway, an umbrella belonging to a gentleman
with a bent rib and a bone handle.”
“To be disposed of, a mail phaeton, the property of a gentleman with a
movable headpiece as good as new.”
* * * * *