had made some preliminary inquiries, when she was suddenly interrupted
by the woman, who said:
“Say, youse is fresh at dis business, ain’t youse?”
The amateur in mission work blushingly admitted such to be the case,
adding, “I have never visited you before, Mrs. Muldoon.”
“Thin,” explained the Irishwoman, “I tell ye what to do. Ye sit down
in that chair there, ye read me a short psalm, ye gives me fifty
cints, an’ thin ye goes.”
* * * * *
The following conversation was overheard during a hunting trip in
Scotland:
Fitz--“I say, are all your beaters out of the wood?”
Keeper--“Yes, sir.”
Fitz--“Are you sure?”
Keeper--“Yes, sir.”
Fitz--“Have you counted them?”
Keeper--“No, sir; but I know they’re all right.”
Fitz--“Then I’ve shot a deer!”
* * * * *
Joe--“I love you; I love you. Won’t you be my wife?”
Jess--“You must see mama first.”
Joe--“I have seen her several times, but I love you just the same.”
* * * * *
Long after the victories of Washington over the French and English had
made his name familiar to all Europe, Benjamin Franklin chanced to
dine with the English and French Ambassadors, when the following
toasts were drunk:
“‘England’--The Sun, whose bright beams enlighten and fructify the
remotest corners of the earth.”
The French Ambassador, filled with national pride, but too polite to
dispute the previous toast, offered the following:
“‘France’--The Moon, whose mild, steady and cheering rays are the
delight of all nations, consoling them in darkness and making their
dreariness beautiful.”
Doctor Franklin then arose, and, with his usual dignified simplicity,
said:
“‘George Washington’--The Joshua who commanded the Sun and Moon to
stand still, and they obeyed him.”
* * * * *
The following appeal of a Western editor is still going the rounds,
although it is to be hoped that by this time the writer’s only trouble
is in having his vest made large enough:
“We see by an esteemed contemporary that a young lady in Chicago is so
particular that she kneads bread with her gloves on. What of that? The
editor of this paper needs bread with his coat on; he needs bread with
his trousers on; in fact he needs bread with all of his clothes on.
And if some of his debtors don’t pay up pretty quick he’ll need bread
without anything at all on, and this Western climate is no Garden of
Eden.”
* * * * *
The unconscious humors of country journalism, says William Allen
White, are often more amusing than the best efforts of the alleged
“funny man.”
According to Mr. White there once appeared in a Kansas paper the
following “personal notice”:
“Our prominent townsman Theodore Monkton is seriously ill. He is being
attended twice a day by Doctor Smith, in consultation with Doctor
Morgan. His recovery, therefore, is in great doubt.”
* * * * *
A crowd of small boys were gathered about the entrance of a circus
tent in one of the small cities in New Hampshire one day, trying to
get a glimpse of the interior. A man standing near watched them for a
few moments, then walking up to the ticket-taker he said:
“Let all these boys in, and count them as they pass.”
The man did as requested, and when the last one had gone, he turned
and said, “Twenty-eight.”
“Good!” said the man, “I guessed just right,” and walked off.
* * * * *
The editor of a rural newspaper determined to adopt the idea of
posting bulletins on a bulletin board for all important events that
happened in the town. Soon afterward he was told one morning by the
local physician that Deacon Jones was seriously ill. The deacon was a
man of some distinction in the community, so the editor posted a
series of bulletins as follows:
10 A. M.--Deacon Jones no better.
11 A. M.--Deacon Jones has relapse.
12.30 P. M.--Deacon Jones weaker. Pulse failing.
1 P. M.--Deacon Jones has slight rally.
2.15 P. M.--Deacon Jones’s family has been summoned.
3.10 P. M.--Deacon Jones has died and gone to heaven.
Later in the afternoon a traveling salesman happened by, stopped to
read the bulletins, and going to the bulletin board, made another
report concerning the deceased. It was:
4.10 P. M.--Great excitement in heaven. Deacon Jones has not yet
arrived.
* * * * *
A group of drummers were trading yarns on the subject of hospitality,
when one, a little Virginian with humorous eyes and a delightful
drawl, took up his parable thus:
“I was down in Louisiana last month, travelin’ ‘cross country with a
friend, when we kinder got lost in a mighty lonesome sort of road just
about dark. We rode along a right good piece after sundown, and when
we saw a light ahead, I tell you it looked first-rate. We drove up to
the light, finding ’twas a house, and when I hollered like a lost calf
the man came out and we asked him to take us in for the night. He
looked at us mighty hard, then said:
“‘Wal, I reckon I kin stand it if you kin.’
“So we went in and found ’twas only a two-room shanty, just swarmin’
with children. He had six, from four to eleven years old; as there
didn’t seem to be but one bed, me an’ Stony wondered what in thunder
would become of us.
“They gave us supper, good hog and hominy, the best they had, and then
the old woman put the two youngest kids to bed. They went straight to
sleep. Then she took those out, laid them over in the corner, put the
next two to bed, and so on.
“After all the children were asleep on the floor the old folk went in
the other room and told us we could go to bed if we wanted to, and
bein’ powerful tired out, we did.
“Well, sir, the next morning when we woke up we were lying over in the
corner with the kids, and the old man and the old woman had the bed.”
* * * * *
“Waiter, what have you got?” said May Irwin in one of her plays.
“Well, I’ve got pig’s feet--”
“Never mind telling me your troubles, I want to know what you’ve got
to eat?”
* * * * *
As every one knows, the great Von Moltke never wasted words and
despised anything that approached garrulity in others. German army
officers are fond of telling an anecdote illustrative of this
peculiarity:
Von Moltke was leaving Berlin on a railway journey. Just before the
train pulled out of the station a captain of hussars entered the
general’s compartment and, recognizing him, saluted with “Guten
Morgen, Excellenz!”
Two hours later the train slowed up at a way station. The captain
arose, saluted, and with another “Guten Morgen, Excellenz!” left the
train.
Turning to one of his companions, Von Moltke said, with an expression
of the greatest disgust, “Intolerable gas-bag!”
* * * * *
A gentleman gave a large dinner party in Dublin once and invited Mr.
O’Connor, one of the wittiest men in the Emerald Isle, to amuse and
divert his guests. Mr. O’Connor accepted the invitation with pleasure.
But from the beginning to the end of dinner he preserved a solemn and
serious face. The host thought this very strange, and just before
rising from the table remarked to him jestingly, “Why, O’Connor, old
fellow, I don’t believe the biggest fool in Ireland could make you
laugh to-night.” Whereupon his guest answered in a solemn tone,
speaking his first word that evening, “Try.”
* * * * *
Governor Guild of Massachusetts, who served in the Spanish War, tells
a story of a New York regiment, many of whose members were recruited
on the East Side. They were spoiling for a fight, and it became
necessary to post a sentry to preserve order.
A big husky Bowery recruit, of pugilistic propensities, was put on
guard outside, and given special orders to see that quiet reigned, and
above all things, if trouble came his way, not to lose possession of
his rifle.
Soon a general row began, growing in proportions as the minutes
passed. The soldier walked his post nervously, without interrupting,
until the corporal of the guard appeared on the scene with
reenforcements.
“Why didn’t you stop this row?” shouted the corporal.
The sentry, balancing his rifle on his shoulder, raised his arms to
the correct boxing position, and replied:
“Sure, phwat could I do wid this gun in me hands!”
* * * * *
A New Jersey man recently reached the conclusion that his
eight-year-old boy is a trifle too bright.
At dinner one evening the father had been entertaining a number of
friends from Philadelphia with a funny story. This was at dessert. The
youngster had been very quiet throughout the previous courses; but
here he arose to the occasion in fine style.
When the laughter induced by his father’s humor had ceased, the boy,
with a fine affectation of delight, said:
“Now, dad, _do_ tell the other one!”
* * * * *
The June bride frowned.
“These tomatoes,” she said, “are just twice as dear as those across
the street. Why is it?”
“Ah, ma’am, these”--and the grocer smiled--“these are hand-picked.”
She blushed.
“Of course,” she said, hastily; “I might have known. Give me a bushel,
please.”
* * * * *
Mistress--“Jane, I saw the milkman kiss you this morning. In the
future I will take the milk in.”
Jane--“’Twouldn’t be no use, mum. He’s promised never to kiss anybody
but me.”
* * * * *
Not long ago a man was charged with shooting a number of pigeons, the
property of a farmer. In giving his evidence the farmer was
exceedingly careful, even nervous, and the solicitor for the defense
endeavored to frighten him. “Now,” he remarked, “are you prepared to
swear that this man shot your pigeons?” “I didn’t say he did shoot
’em,” was the reply. “I said I suspected him o’ doing it.” “Ah! now
we’re coming to it. What made you suspect that man?” “Well, firstly, I
caught him on my land wi’ a gun. Secondly, I heerd a gun go off an’
saw some pigeons fall. Thirdly, I found four o’ my pigeons in his
pocket--an’ I don’t think them birds flew there and committed
suicide.”
* * * * *
“Mama, can’t I go up to the next block and play with the Jones boys?”
asked Henry, a boy of six, who was being brought up very carefully.
“No, indeed!” answered his mother. “They are very bad boys.”
“Then can’t I go over to see Mrs. Smith’s little girls?”
“No, Henry; I’m afraid to let you go.”
The little fellow left the room; later, he stuck his head inside with,
“Say, mama, I’m going over next door an’ play with the dog.”
* * * * *
The Right Reverend Chauncey B. Brewster, D.D., Bishop of Connecticut,
tells a story which he says is Mrs. Brewster’s favorite. It seems the
Bishop had caught a small boy stealing apples in his orchard; so,
after reproving him severely for some time, he said, “And now, my boy,
do you know why I tell you all this? There is One before whom even I
am a crawling worm; do you know who?”
“Sure,” replied the boy, promptly; “the missus.”
* * * * *
A Bishop was once traveling third-class on a branch line in
Devonshire, England. At one of the stations a countryman got in. After
gazing at the Bishop’s attire in a puzzled manner for some time, he
ventured the remark, “Be you a curate, sir?”
“Well,” said the Bishop meditatively, “I was once.”
“A-ah,” said the rustic, a comprehensive smile overspreading his face,
“the drink, I suppose?”
* * * * *
A celebrated parson preached a rather long sermon from the text “Thou
art weighed and found wanting.” After the congregation had listened
about an hour, some began to get weary and went out; others soon
followed, greatly to the annoyance of the minister. Another person was
about to retire when the minister stopped his sermon and said:
“That’s right, gentlemen; as fast as you are weighed, pass out.”
* * * * *
“Here, hold my horse a minute, will you?”
“Sir! I’m a Member of Congress!”
“Never mind. You look honest. I’ll take a chance.”
* * * * *
A red-faced man was holding the attention of a little group with some
wonderful recitals.
“The most exciting chase I ever had,” he said, “happened a few years
ago in Russia. One night, when sleighing about ten miles from my
destination I discovered, to my intense horror, that I was being
followed by a pack of wolves. I fired blindly into the pack, killing
one of the brutes, and to my delight saw the others stop to devour it.
After doing this, however, they still came on. I kept on repeating the
dose, with the same result, and each occasion gave me an opportunity
to whip up my horse. Finally there was only one wolf left, yet on it
came, with its fierce eyes glowing in anticipation of a good, hot
supper.”
Here the man who had been sitting in the corner burst forth into a fit
of laughter.
“Why, man,” said he, “by your way of reckoning that last wolf must
have had the rest of the pack inside him!”
“Ah!” said the red-faced man without a tremor, “now I remember, it did
wobble a bit.”
* * * * *
Frederic Remington, the illustrator, fresh from a Western trip on
which he had been making studies of Indians and cowpunchers and things
outdoors, met an art editor who insisted upon dragging him up to an
exhibition of very impressionistic pictures.
“You don’t seem enthusiastic,” remarked the editor as they were coming
out. “Didn’t you like them?”
Remington, remembering what he had been told as a boy, counted ten
before replying. Then:
“Like ’em? Say! I’ve got two maiden aunts in New Rochelle that can
_knit_ better pictures than those!”
* * * * *
The wife of General S. was doing some shopping one morning recently
when, coming out of a store, she noticed a small country wagon draw up
to the curb. In it sat a woman whom the lady recognized as a former
servant in the family who had lost her husband some two or three years
before. The woman was clad in deep mourning which had an air of
newness about it. Mrs. S. hastened to greet the woman. “How is this,
Bridget. I hope you haven’t met with any recent bereavement?”
“No, mem, not so racent--it’s for poor Mike. I allus said _when_ I
could I would--and so I _am_!”
* * * * *
Those who know a certain Southern Senator will picture his ample
proportions when they read this story:
While journeying through the South, he was very much annoyed one day
at the delay in getting food served in a certain _café_. He had given
his order, and waited impatiently an unreasonable length of time,
when the waiter appeared and was evidently looking for some one who
must have gone out without waiting for his meal.
When asked by the Senator whom he was looking for he replied.
“A little boy who gave his order.”
The Senator replied: “I am that boy.”
* * * * *
Jack’s mother had been walking up and down the piazza with him
repeating Mother Goose. She began the “Solomon Grundy” one, going
through it rapidly without taking breath, ending laughingly:
“Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday,
And that was the end
Of Solomon Grundy.”
Jack took his thumb out of his mouth, looked reprovingly at his mother
and said:
“Don’t laugh, mama: that’s _awful_.”
* * * * *
“I’m a terror, I be,” announced the new arrival in Frozen Dog to one
of the men behind the bar.
“Be ye?”
“Take three men to handle me, once I get started,” he went on.
“Oh, well,” he remarked, as he arose painfully and dusted off his
clothes, “of course, if ye’re short-handed, I suppose two kin do it on
a pinch.”
* * * * *
David B. Hill, former Governor of and Senator from New York, has a
secluded hatter somewhere in the State who makes his high hats after
elaborate plans drawn by Mr. Hill many years ago, and not changed
since.
One night Governor Odell, of New York, was giving a reception in
Albany, and President Roosevelt, then elected Vice-President, met Mr.
Hill on the steps of the New York Executive mansion.
Roosevelt wore a black rough-rider hat and Hill had one of his
peculiar sky-pieces.
“Senator,” said Roosevelt, “you should wear a hat like this one that I
have on. They are much easier on the head, preserve the hair and are
altogether better than silk ones.”
Mr. Hill looked at the coming Vice-President. “My dear sir,” he said,
“I haven’t worn a hat like that since I went out of the show
business.”
* * * * *
A negress was brought before a magistrate charged with cruelly
treating her child. Evidence was clear that she had severely beaten
the youngster, who was in court to exhibit his marks and bruises.
Before imposing sentence the magistrate asked the woman if she had
anything to say. “Kin Ah ask yo’ honah a question?” His honor nodded.
“Well, yo’ honah, I’d like to ask yo’ whether yo’ was ever the father
of a puffectly wuthless culled chile?”
* * * * *
A member of an eminent St. Louis law firm went to Chicago to consult a
client. When he arrived he found that he had unaccountably forgotten
the client’s name. He telegraphed his partner, “What is our client’s
name?” The answer read, “Brown, Walter E. Yours is Allen, William B.”
* * * * *
A traveling man stopped at an Indiana hotel. The proprietor told him
he had not a room in the house. The man said he must have a room.
Finally the proprietor told him there was a room, a little room
separated by a thin partition from a nervous man who had lived in the
house for ten years.
“He is so nervous,” said the landlord, “I don’t dare put any one in
that room. The least noise might give him a nervous spell that would
endanger his life.”
“Oh, give me a room,” said the traveler. “I’ll be so quiet he’ll not
know I’m there.”
The room was given the traveler. He slipped in noiselessly and began
to disrobe. He took off one article of clothing after another as
quietly as a burglar. At last he came to his shoes. He unlaced a shoe
and dropped it.
The shoe fell to the floor with a great noise. The offending traveler,
horrified at what he had done, waited to hear from the nervous man.
Not a sound. He took off the second shoe and placed it noiselessly
upon the floor; then in absolute silence finished undressing and
crawled between the sheets.
Half an hour went by. He had dropped into a doze when there came a
tremendous knocking on the partition.
The traveler sat up in bed trembling and dismayed. “Wh-wha-what’s the
matter?” he asked.
Then came the voice of the nervous man:
“Hang you! Drop that other shoe, will you?”
* * * * *
There was once an Irishman, who sought employment as a diver, bringing
with him his native enthusiasm and a certain amount of experience.
Although he had never been beneath the water, he had crossed an ocean
of one variety and swallowed nearly an ocean of another. But he had
the Hibernian smile, which is convincing, and the firm chanced to need
a new man. And so on the following Monday morning Pat hid his smile
for the first time in a diving helmet.
Now, the job upon which the crew to which Pat had attached himself was
working in comparatively shallow water, and Pat was provided with a
pick and told to use it on a ledge below in a manner with which he was
already familiar.
Down he went with his pick, and for about fifteen minutes nothing was
heard from him. Then came a strong, determined, deliberate pull on the
signal rope, indicating that Pat had a very decided wish to come to
the top. The assistants pulled him hastily to the raft and removed his
helmet.
“Take off the rest of it,” said Pat.
“Take off the rest of it?”
“Yis,” said Pat, “Oi’ll worruk no longer in a dark place where Oi
can’t spit on me hands.”
* * * * *
On the first day that a young man began his duties as reporter on a
popular paper a report came from a near-by town that there was a
terrible fire raging. The editor of the paper immediately sent the
new reporter to the place, and, upon arriving there, he found that the
firemen were unable to get control of the fire, so he sent this
telegram to the editor: “Fire still raging. What shall I do?” The
editor was so mad that he wired back at once: “Find out where the fire
is the hottest and jump in.”
* * * * *
“One day,” related Denny to his friend Jerry, “when Oi had wandered
too far inland on me shore leave Oi suddenly found thot there was a
great big haythen, tin feet tall, chasin’ me wid a knife as long as
yer ar-rm. Oi took to me heels an’ for fifty miles along the road we
had it nip an’ tuck. Thin Oi turned into the woods an’ we run for one
hundhred an’ twinty miles more, wid him gainin’ on me steadily, owin’
to his knowledge of the counthry. Finally, just as Oi could feel his
hot breath burnin’ on the back of me neck, we came to a big lake. Wid
one great leap Oi landed safe on the opposite shore, leavin’ me
pursuer confounded and impotent wid rage.”
“Faith an’ thot was no great jump,” commented Jerry, “considerin’ the
runnin’ sthart ye had.”
* * * * *
Quite recently an old friend of the Browns went to see them at their
new country home. As he approached the house a large dog ran out to
the gate and began barking at him through the fence.
As he hesitated about opening the gate, Brown’s wife came to the door
and exclaimed: “How do you do! Come right in. Don’t mind the dog.”
“But won’t he bite?” exclaimed the friend, not anxious to meet the
canine without some assurance of his personal safety.
“That’s just what I want to find out,” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “I just
bought him this morning.”
* * * * *
The late Julian Ralph, one of the most gifted newspaper men of his
generation, while being shaved one day, was forced to listen to many
of the barber’s anecdotes.
Stopping to strop his razor, and prepared, with brush in hand to
recommence, he said, “Shall I go over it again?”
“No, thanks,” drawled Ralph, “It’s hardly necessary. I think I can
remember every word.”
* * * * *
The following is a typical Ian Maclaren story:
“Who had this place last year?” asked a Southern shooting tenant of
his keeper.
“Well,” said Donald, “I’m not denyin’ that he wass an Englishman, but
he wass a good man whatever. Oh, yess, he went to kirk and he shot
very well, but he wass narrow, very narrow.”
“Narrow,” said the other in amazement, for he supposed he meant
bigoted, and the charge was generally the other way about. “What was
he narrow in?”
“Well,” said Donald, “I will be tellin’ you, and it wass this way. The
twelfth [the beginning of the grouse shooting] wass a very good day,
and we had fifty-two brace. But it wass warm, oh! yess, very warm, and
when we came back to the Lodge, the gentleman will say to me, ‘It is
warm.’ and I will not be contradicting him. Then he will be saying,
‘Maybe you are thirsty,’ and I will not be contradicting him.
Afterwards he will take out his flask and be speaking about a dram. I
will not be contradicting him, but will just say, ‘Toots, toots.’ Then
he will be pouring it out, and when the glass wass maybe half-full I
will say, just for politeness, ‘Stop.’ And he stopped. Oh! yess, a
very narrow man.”
* * * * *
Mark Twain as a humorist is no respecter of persons, and a story is
told of him and Bishop Doane which is worth repeating. It occurred
when Mark Twain was living in Hartford, where Mr. Doane was then
rector of an Episcopal church. Twain had listened to one of the
doctor’s best sermons, on Sunday morning, when he approached him and
said politely: “I have enjoyed your sermon this morning. I welcomed it
as I would an old friend. I have a book in my library that contains
every word of it.” “Impossible, sir,” replied the rector, indignantly.
“Not at all. I assure you it is true,” said Twain. “Then I shall
trouble you to send me that book,” rejoined the rector with dignity.
The next morning Dr. Doane received, with Mark Twain’s compliments, a
dictionary.
* * * * *
A friend of Mark Twain’s tells of an amusing incident in connection
with the first meeting between the humorist and the late James McNeil
Whistler, the artist.
The friend having facetiously warned Clemens that the painter was a
confirmed joker, Mark solemnly averred that he would get the better of
Whistler should the latter attempt “any funny business.” Furthermore,
Twain determined to anticipate Whistler, if possible.
So, when the two had been introduced, which event took place in
Whistler’s studio, Clemens, assuming an air of hopeless stupidity,
approached a just-completed painting, and said:
“Not at all bad, Mr. Whistler, not at all bad. Only,” he added,
reflectively, with a motion as if to rub out a cloud effect, “if I
were you I’d do away with that cloud.”
“Great Heavens, sir!” exclaimed Whistler, almost beside himself. “Do
be careful not to touch that; the paint is not yet dry!”
“Oh, I don’t mind that,” responded Twain, with an air of perfect
nonchalance; “I am wearing gloves.”
* * * * *
This is a story of Italian revenge. A vender of plaster statuettes saw
a chance for a sale in a well-dressed, bibulous man who was tacking
down the street.
“You buy-a de statuette?” he asked, alluringly holding out his
choicest offering. “Gar-r-ribaldi--I sell-a him verra cheep. De
gr-reat-a Gar-r-ribaldi--only thirta cents!”
“Oh, t’ell with Garibaldi,” said the bibulous one, making a swipe with
his arm that sent Garibaldi crashing to the sidewalk.