small hotel in a remote part of the White Mountains. Behind him came a
severe valet carrying bags and a gun-case, and on a wagon at the door
were two prosperous trunks. In an armchair behind the hotel counter
sat a spare old man placidly chewing tobacco and reading the “Weekly
Recorder.”
“Ah-h-h! Hm!” the tall young man began. “Is this Mr. Silas P. Meacham,
proprietor of this hotel?”
“Yaas,” replied the old one, glancing up over his paper.
“I am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of the Metropolis Club,
of New York,” said the visitor, impressively. “My friend, Mr.
Vandergilt, told me you would take excellent care of me here.”
“Ya-as,” replied Silas, still buried in his paper.
“_I_ am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of New York,” the
visitor repeated. “My friend, Mr. Vandergilt, told me you would take
excellent care of me here.”
“Ya-a-as,” said Silas, still chewing and reading his paper.
“_I_ am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of New York,” the
young man reiterated with the air of one who tells great news, also
with rising indignation. “My friend, Mr. _Vandergilt_, told me you
would take excellent care of me--show me every attention.”
“Wa-al,” exclaimed Silas P. Meacham, throwing down the paper and
revealing his few yellow teeth in a mocking grin--“wa-al, what d’ye
want me t’ do--kiss ye?”
* * * * *
Court--(to prosecutor)--“Then you recognize this handkerchief as the
one which was stolen?”
Prosecutor--“Yes, your honor.”
Court--“And yet it isn’t the only handkerchief of the sort in the
world. See, this one I have in my pocket is exactly like it.”
Prosecutor--“Very likely, your honor; there were two stolen.”
* * * * *
The company of soldiers had been receiving a lesson in minor tactics,
and among other subjects was the method of patrols in getting
information. The book said that information could be obtained from
“mayors, postmasters, livery-stable keepers, doctors, peasants, etc.”
The lieutenant turned to Finnegan and said: “Do you know what a
peasant is, Finnegan?”
He answered promptly, “Yes, sor.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It’s a bird, sor,” said Finnegan with evident pride.
* * * * *
Senator Pettus, of Alabama, was writing with a noisy, spluttering pen.
Laying it down, he smiled and said: “Once I was spending the evening
with a friend of mine in Selma. We sat in the dining-room and from
the kitchen came a dreadful scratching sound. ‘Martha,’ said my friend
to the maid, ‘what is that scratching? it must be the dog trying to
get in.’ ‘Huh!’ said Martha, ‘Dat ain’ no dog, dat’s cook writin’ a
love-letter to heh honeysuckle.’”
* * * * *
“No smoking in this coach, sir,” said the conductor of a passenger
train. “I’m not smokin’,” answered the passenger with an injured air
from the depths of his seat.
“You’ve got your pipe in your mouth,” declared the conductor with
emphasis, sharply confident. “I hov,” retorted the Hibernian, “and I
hov me fut in me shoe, too, but I’m not walkin’.”
* * * * *
Little Alice is old for her years. One evening after she had gone to
bed she heard mama and papa laughing in much enjoyment over a game of
flinch; she longed to get up and join them, but knew she must not. The
next morning at breakfast she was very quiet. Presently she drew a
deep sigh, and said, “What a good time you and papa had last night.
Oh, I feel the need of a husband, mama, I _do_ feel it!”
* * * * *
A teacher in one of the primary schools of New York recently read to
her pupils “The Old Oaken Bucket.”
After explaining the song to them very carefully, she asked the class
to copy the first stanza from the blackboard, where she had written
it, and try to illustrate the verse by drawings in the same way a
story is illustrated.
In a short while one little girl handed up her paper with several
little dots between two lines, a circle, half a dozen dots, and three
buckets.
“I do not quite understand this, Mamie,” said the teacher, kindly.
“What is that circle?”
“Oh, that’s the well,” Mamie replied.
“And why do you have three buckets?” again asked the teacher.
“One,” answered the child, “is the oaken bucket, one is the iron-bound
bucket, and the other is the moss-covered bucket that hung in the
well.”
“But, Mamie, what are all these little dots for?”
“Why those are the spots which my infancy knew,” earnestly replied
Mamie.
* * * * *
Four gentlemen went out to dine. They were Arthur Balfour, Joseph
Chamberlain, Lord Charles Beresford, and the Japanese Minister. Mr.
Arthur Balfour was standing treat and said to Joey, “What will you
take?” “Oh, thanks, I’ll take Scotch, Arthur.” “And what will you
take, Lord Charles?” “Oh, thanks, I’ll take Irish, Arthur.” “And now,
what will you take?” addressing the Japanese Minister. “I’ll take Port
Arthur, thanks.”
* * * * *
Not long after the great Chelsea fire some children in Newton,
Massachusetts, held a Charity Fair by which eighteen dollars were
realized. This they forwarded to the rector of a certain Boston
church who had taken a prominent part in the relief work, with a
letter which read somewhat as follows:
“We have had a fair and made eighteen dollars. We are sending it to
you. Please give it to the Chelsea sufferers.
“Yours truly, etc.
“P. S. We hope the suffering is not all over.”
* * * * *
A story is told of a certain committee meeting in which the
proceedings commenced with noise and gradually became uproarious. At
last one of the disputants, losing all control over his emotions,
exclaimed to his opponent: “Sir, you are, I think, the biggest ass
that I ever had the misfortune to set eyes upon!” “Order! order!” said
the chairman, gravely; “you seem to forget that I am in the room.”
* * * * *
An Irish priest had labored hard with one of his flock to induce him
to give up whisky. “I tell you, Michael,” said the priest, “whisky is
your worst enemy, and you should keep as far away from it as you can.”
“The enemy is it, father?” responded Michael, “and it was your
riverence’s self that was telling us in the pulpit last Sunday to love
our enemies.” “So I was, Michael,” rejoined the priest, “but I didn’t
tell you to swallow them.”
* * * * *
A Sabbath-school worker was visiting a Sabbath-school some distance
from home. Being called upon to address the school, he commenced by
asking, “Who can tell me something about Peter?” (the lesson was about
Peter that day). Having received no answer from either large or small
pupils, he again made the request. This time a little girl put up her
hand. He called the little girl to him and placed her upon a chair.
After complimenting her on her bravery and brightness, he asked her to
tell him all she knew about Peter. In return came the following:
“Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater,
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her;
Put her in a pumpkin shell
Where he kept her very well.”
* * * * *
Senator Beveridge, in recommending broad and generous views to the
graduating class of a medical school, told this story:
“I once saw two famous physicians introduced at a reception. They were
deservedly famous, but they were of opposing schools; and the regular,
as he shook the other by the hand, said loudly:
“‘I am glad to meet you as a gentleman, sir, though I can’t admit that
you are a physician.’
“‘And I,’ said the homeopathist, smiling faintly, ’am glad to meet you
as a physician, though I can’t admit you are a gentleman.’”
* * * * *
At a recent dinner in London the conversation turned to the subject of
lynching in the United States. It was the general opinion that a large
percentage of Americans met death at the end of a rope. Finally the
hostess turned to an American, who had taken no part in the
conversation, and said:
“You, sir, must have often seen these affairs.”
“Yes,” he replied, “we take a kind of municipal pride in seeing which
city can show the greatest number of lynchings yearly.”
“Oh, do tell us about a lynching you have seen yourself,” broke in
half a dozen voices at once.
“The night before I sailed for England,” said Eugene Field, “I was
giving a dinner at a hotel to a party of intimate friends when a
colored waiter spilled a plate of soup over the gown of a lady at an
adjoining table. The gown was utterly ruined, and the gentlemen of her
party at once seized the waiter, tied a rope around his neck, and at a
signal from the injured lady swung him into the air.”
“Horrible,” said the hostess with a shudder. “And did you actually see
this yourself?”
“Well, no,” admitted the American apologetically. “Just at that moment
I happened to be downstairs killing the chef for putting mustard in
the blanc mange.”
* * * * *
Mrs. Jones recently spent a few days at a farm, and in a moment of
originality bought some poultry from the farmer with a view to their
providing fresh eggs for breakfast every morning. She sent them to
town per the local carrier, despatching a note at the same time to her
husband telling him to look out for the consignment. When Jones
reached home from his office he inquired if the poultry had arrived.
The servant told him they had, but the man had carelessly put them in
the back yard, leaving the door open, and they had all escaped.
Thereupon a fowl hunt was immediately organized. The next day Jones
saw the carrier. “Nice trick you played me yesterday,” said he; “spent
three hours hunting those fowls and only found ten.” “Then think
yourself blessed lucky,” replied the man. “I only brought six.”
* * * * *
A patronizing young lord was seated opposite the late James McNeill
Whistler at dinner one evening. During a lull in the conversation he
adjusted his monocle and leaned forward toward the artist.
“Aw, y’ know, Mr. Whistler,” he drawled, “I pahssed your house this
mawning.”
“Thank you,” said Whistler quietly. “Thank you very much.”
* * * * *
The new minister in a Georgia church was delivering his first sermon.
The darky janitor was a critical listener from a back corner of the
church. The minister’s sermon was eloquent, and his prayers seemed to
cover the whole category of human wants.
After the services one of the deacons asked the old darky what he
thought of the new minister. “Don’t you think he offers up a good
prayer, Joe?”
“Ah mos’ suhtainly does, boss. Why, dat man axed de good Lord fo’
things dat de odder preacher didn’t even know He had!”
* * * * *
For weeks the kindergarten had been deluged with nature verses, and
the process of absorption was far advanced. Sufficiently to admit of
a little squeezing with results, thought the teacher.
“Now, children,” she said, “I want you each to bring in a little verse
that you have made yourselves about the buds, or the trees, or the
flowers, or anything that pleases you.”
Various specimens were produced next day, but the gem of the
collection was little May Flynn’s. With appropriate gestures she
recited:
“See the pretty gold fish swimming in the globe!
See the pretty robin singing in the tree!
Who teached these two to fly together?
Who stucked the fur upon their breasts?
’Twas God. ’Twas God. He done it.”
* * * * *
A story about King Edward is worth repeating. Just before the illness
which caused the postponement of the coronation, he was racing down
one of the country roads in his motor-car at a speed which was away
beyond the legal limit.
“Hi! Hi!” called a policeman. “Stop there, in the name of the law!”
His Majesty is said to have slackened speed and called out: “But I’m
the king!”
“Jest you come aht o’ that,” was the reply; “yer the third king wot’s
come along this morning.”
* * * * *
In order to play “Rosemary” some years ago, John Drew shaved off his
mustache, thereby greatly changing his appearance. Shortly afterward
he met Max Beerbohm in the lobby of a London theater, but could not
just then recall who the latter was. Mr. Beerbohm’s memory was better.
“Oh, Mr. Drew,” he said, “I’m afraid you don’t know me without your
mustache.”
* * * * *
A truly eloquent parson had been preaching for an hour or so on the
immortality of the soul.
“I looked at the mountains,” he declaimed, “and could not help
thinking, ‘Beautiful as you are, you will be destroyed, while my soul
will not.’ I gazed upon the ocean and cried, ‘Mighty as you are you
will eventually dry up, but not I.’”
* * * * *
“Now if I don’t git rid o’ dis cold soon,” complained Jimmy, the
jockey, “I’ll be a dead one.”
“Did you go to Dr. Goodman, as I told you?” asked his friend.
“Naw! De sign on his door said ’10 to 1’ an’ I wouldn’t monkey wid no
long shot like dat.”
* * * * *
Herbert S. Stone, the publisher, described at a dinner in Washington
the amusing methods of a newspaper writer who used to write articles
at a set rate a column.
He was once commissioned to do a serial story for a Chicago paper. The
story, as it proceeded from week to week, was interesting, but it
contained many passages like the following:
“Did you hear him?”
“I did.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Where?”
“By the well.”
“When?”
“To-day.”
“Then he lives?”
“He does.”
“Ah.”
The editor, sending for the man, said:
“Hereafter we will pay you by the letters in your serial. We will pay
you so much a thousand letters.”
The young man, looking crestfallen, went away, but in the very next
instalment of his story he introduced a character who stuttered, and
all through the chapter were scattered passages like this:
“B-b-b-b-believe me, s-s-s-sir, I am n-n-not g-g-g-guilty. M-m-m-my
m-m-m-mother c-c-c-committed this c-c-c-crime.”
* * * * *
A man with a soft, low voice had just completed his purchases in a
department store of the City of Churches.
“What is the name?” asked the clerk.
“Jepson,” replied the man.
“Chipson?”
“No, Jepson.”
“Oh, yes, Jefferson.”
“No, Jepson; J-e-p-s-o-n.”
“Jepson?”
“That’s it. You have it. Sixteen eighty-two--”
“Your first name, initial, please.”
“Oh, K.”
“O. K. Jepson.”
“Excuse me, it isn’t O. K. You did not understand me. I said ‘Oh.’”
“O. Jepson.”
“No; rub out the O and let the K stand.”
The clerk looked annoyed. “Will you please give me your initials
again?”
“I said K.”
“I beg your pardon, you said O. K. Perhaps you had better write it
yourself.”
“I said ‘Oh’--”
“Just now you said K.”
“Allow me to finish what I started to say. I said ‘Oh,’ because I did
not understand what you were asking me. I did not mean that it was my
initial. My name is Kirby Jepson.”
“Oh!”
“No, not O., but K.,” said the man. “Give me the pencil, and I’ll
write it down for you myself. There, I guess it’s O. K. now.”
* * * * *
The furnishing of the new house had gone on vociferously. All the
family told stories of the beautiful and rare articles picked up at
auctions, usually at such bargains as only amateurs in such matters
are able to find. There was naturally much curiosity to see how the
house looked. The first visitor who had the opportunity to inspect it
was eagerly questioned by her friends.
“I can’t describe it myself,” she explained. “All I can say is that
auctions speak louder than words.”
* * * * *
When Frank R. Stockton started out with his Rudder Grange experiences
he undertook to keep chickens. One old motherly Plymouth Rock brought
out a brood late in the fall, and Stockton named each of the chicks
after some literary friend, among the rest Mary Mapes Dodge. Mrs.
Dodge was visiting the farm some time later, and, happening to think
of her namesake, she said: “By the way, Frank, how does little Mary
Mapes Dodge get along?” “The funny thing about little Mary Mapes
Dodge,” said he, “is, she turns out to be Thomas Bailey Aldrich.”
* * * * *
A short time ago a lady with an only child (aged seven) was
entertaining the bishop of the diocese to afternoon tea. The small
girl was allowed to come to tea, but her mother had instilled into her
mind the necessity of speaking reverently to the bishop. Tea came and
with it the pangs of hunger, but at the same time her mother’s
warning, “speak reverently,” was always before her. After sitting for
about ten minutes gazing at the good things and repeating over and
over again, “speak reverently,” she exclaimed, “For God’s sake pass me
the bread and butter.”
* * * * *
Hiram Hardscrabble and his load of hay, two horses, and a perfectly
good wagon were pitched so high and so far by a reckless railroad
train that when they came down they weren’t--any of ’em--good for
much. The local Congressman took the case, and after some months
advised Hiram to accept the railroad company’s offer of lifelong
employment at $15 a week. Hiram accepted. They put him out as a
flagman on a crossing near his native village.
Cassidy, the section boss, stopped his handcar before the flag-shanty,
and after a searching look at Hiram advised as follows:
“So you’re the new flagman, are ye? And ye’ve niver railroaded before.
No harm. We’ll make a man iv ye. See, now, there’s yer red flag and
yer green flag and yer white flag, and yer thrain schedule within on
the wall. All ye have to do is dhrop the gates befoor the thrains do
come, so that they’ll have a clear thrack. D’ye mind, now?
“But there’s wan thing above all others--th’ Impire Shtate Express!
Putt yer gates down two minyits before she comes and keep them down
till she’s pasht. Mind now, she must niver be late on this section.
Niver wan minyit late. I won’t sthand f’r it. Remimber--th’ Impire
Shtate Express. She must niver be late here.”
Hiram promised. At 2 P.M., when the Empire State Express was due in
two minutes, he dropped the crossing gates and stood by with the white
flag to wave her along. Three minutes passed, four, five--and still no
train. As a matter of fact, she had lost half an hour at an open draw
on the Harlem River in the morning, and was laboring mightily to
regain lost time in spite of her fast schedule.
Seven minutes late, and then Hiram heard a wild shriek a mile away and
saw the express coming. He darted into the shanty, grabbed a red flag,
and leaped out upon the track, waving it furiously. The engineer shut
off, threw over the reverse lever, gave her sand and the air; and the
mighty train stopped short, in a whirl of sand, cinders, and sparks,
brakes creaking and passengers pitchpoling everywhere.
“What’s the matter now?” roared the engineer, thrusting half his body
out of the cab and glaring down at Hiram.
“Be yeou th’ ingineer?” asked the flagman, peering at him with
suspicion.
“Yes, yes! Whad-do-you want?”
“I want t’ know whut’s made ye so goldinged late? Cassidy says he
wun’t stand f’r it.”
* * * * *
During a match at St. Andrews, Scotland, a rustic was struck in the
eye accidentally by a golf ball. Running up to his assailant, he
yelled:
“This’ll cost ye five pounds--five pounds!”
“But I called out ‘fore’ as loudly as I could,” explained the golfer.
“Did ye, sir?” replied the troubled one, much appeased. “Weel, I didna
hear; I’ll take fower.”
* * * * *
Mark Twain observed once at a public dinner that he had written a
friendly letter to Queen Victoria protesting against a tax being
levied in England on his head, on the ground that it was a gas-works.
“I don’t know you,” he wrote, “but I’ve met your son. He was at the
head of a procession in the Strand, and I was on a ’bus.” Years
afterward he met the King at Homburg, and they had a long talk. At
parting the King said: “I am glad to have met you again.” That last
word troubled Mark, who asked whether the King had not mistaken him
for some one else. The reply--“Why, don’t you remember meeting me in
the Strand when I was at the head of a procession and you were on a
’bus?” revealed the strength of Royal memories.
* * * * *
An Irishman and an Englishman were recounting feats of physical
prowess. The Englishman, by way of showing his strength, said that he
was accustomed to swim across the Thames three times before breakfast
every morning.
“Well,” said the Irishman, “that may be all right, but it do seem to
me that your clothes would be on the wrong side of the river all the
time.”
* * * * *
An excess luggage porter at a large railway station said to a
“commercial,” “I see your luggage is overweight, sir.” “Ah! your
visionary powers are far too acute for me, my friend.” “What did you
say, sir?” “I say you can see too well for me.” “Ah! to be sure, sir.
I take you----” “Could you see as well now if you had sixpence over
one eye?” “Well, I don’t know, sir, but I’m darned well sure I
couldn’t see at all if I’d another over t’other one.”
* * * * *
Henry James, the American novelist, lives at Rye, one of the Cinque
Ports, but recently he left Rye for a time and took a house in the
country near the estate of a millionaire jam manufacturer, retired.
This man, having married an earl’s daughter, was ashamed of the trade
whereby he had piled up his fortune.
The jam manufacturer one day wrote Mr. James an impudent letter,
vowing that it was outrageous the way the James servants were
trespassing on his grounds. Mr. James wrote back:
“_Dear Sir_: I am very sorry to hear that my servants have been
poaching on your preserves.
“P.S.--You’ll excuse my mentioning your preserves, won’t you?”
* * * * *
An Omaha man was taking an automobile trip through the ranching
section of the State, and to save time took a short cut over a bad
stretch of road, full of jolts and bumps. During the afternoon his
machine broke down, and, as the monkey wrench was missing from his
tool kit, he started on foot for the nearest ranch house to borrow
one. On arriving he found the farmer repairing his fence.
“Have you a monkey wrench about here that I can use?” he asked.
“Ay tank not,” replied the farmer. “Yonson in nax saction ha kape
cattle ranch, Svenson down har ha kape sheep ranch. Faller bane big
fool to make monkey ranch in dese place.”
* * * * *
Andrew Carnegie is fond of the Scots’ national instrument, the
bagpipe, and when he is at home at Skibo Castle usually has his pet
piper to play for him at dinner. Particularly is the musician in
attendance when the great philanthropist has guests.
On one occasion a big company of men sat down to table, and the piper
pranced up and down the room as he played.
The whole thing was new to a French literary man, who politely asked
the guest on his right, “Why does he walk up and down when he does
this thing? Does it add to the volume of the sound, or does it make a
cadence?”
“No,” said the other, “I don’t think it’s that. I fancy it’s to
prevent the listeners getting his range with a knife or a water
bottle.”
* * * * *
Some time ago Professor Brander Matthews went to dine at a certain
dramatic club in New York. Going to the club letter box he picked up
and perused a letter which seemed to be addressed to him. It was a
request from a tailor for the settlement of his little bill. As the
man’s name was quite strange to him he made a careful examination, and
finding that he had been mistaken, put the missive back into its
place. Immediately afterward he saw the real owner take possession of
it, walk into the reading-room, read it carefully, and tear it into
shreds. Then, assured of an audience, the man whose clothes were still
unpaid for, assumed the weary smile of an accomplished ladykiller and
remarked audibly, “Poor, silly, little girl!”
* * * * *
A street-car “masher” tried in every way to attract the attention of
the pretty young girl opposite him. Just as he had about given up, the
girl, entirely unconscious of what had been going on, happened to
glance in his direction. The “masher” immediately took fresh courage.
“It’s cold out to-day, isn’t it?” he ventured.
The girl smiled and nodded assent, but had nothing to say.
“My name is Specknoodle,” he volunteered.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said sympathetically, as she left the car.
* * * * *
A Jew crossing the Brooklyn Bridge met a friend who said, “Abe, I’ll
bet you ten dollars that I can tell you exactly what you’re thinking
about.”
“Vell,” agreed Abe, producing a greasy bill, “I’ll haf to take dot
bet. Put up your money.”
The friend produced two fives. “Abe,” he said, “you are thinking of
going over to Brooklyn, buying a small stock of goods, renting a small
store, taking out all the fire-insurance that you can possibly get,
and then burning out. Do I win my bet?”
“Vell,” replied Abe, “you don’t egsactly vin, but the idea is worth de
money. Take id.”
* * * * *
Andrew Carnegie tells a good story illustrating the canniness of the
Scot.
An Irish friend had insisted that a Scotchman should stay at his
house, instead of at a hotel, and kept him there for a month, playing
the host in detail, even to treating him to sundry visits to the
theater, paying the cab fares and the rest. When the visitor was
returning home, the Irishman saw him to the station, and they went
together to have a last cigar.