flashing fire, he seized from his stock a statuette of George
Washington. “You t’ell-a with my Gar-r-ribaldi?” he hissed between his
teeth. “So.” He raised the immortal George high above his head
and--crash! it flew into fragments alongside of the ill-fated
Garibaldi. “Ha! I to hell-a wid your George-a Wash! Ha, ha!”
* * * * *
Patrick arrived home much the worse for wear. One eye was closed, his
nose was broken, and his face looked as though it had been stung by
bees.
“Glory be!” exclaimed his wife.
“Thot Dutchman Schwartzheimer--’twas him,” explained Patrick.
“Shame on ye!” exploded his wife without sympathy. “A big shpalpeen
the loikes of you to get bate up by a little omadhoun of a Dootchman
the size of him! Why--”
“Whist, Nora,” said Patrick, “don’t spake disrespectfully of the
dead!”
* * * * *
One day a teacher in a kindergarten school in New York, preparatory to
giving out an exercise said, “Now children I want you all to be very
quiet, so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.” Everything had
quieted down nicely and the teacher was about to speak when a little
voice in the rear of the room said, “Go ahead, teacher, and let her
drop.”
* * * * *
It appears that the late Senator John T. Morgan, who was quite
near-sighted, while at dessert one evening in a hotel at Hot Springs,
Virginia, experienced considerable difficulty in separating from the
plate passed him by the colored waiter what he thought was a chocolate
eclair. It stuck fast, so Senator Morgan pushed his fork quite under
it, and tried again and again to pry it up.
Suddenly he became aware that his friends at the table were convulsed
with laughter, which much mystified him. But his surprise was even
greater when the waiter quietly remarked:
“Pardon me, Senator, but that’s my thumb!”
* * * * *
A doctor named Brown had been the adorer for many years of a Miss
White. Unluckily his ardent love was not reciprocated. He had a
reputation for ready wit and did not allow even his unfortunate love
affair to stand in the way of his exercising it. One night over a
glass of wine in the club the good doctor frequented a wag remarked,
“What do you say, doctor, to my giving the toast of Miss White, your
old flame?” “You may, and you’ll not do any harm either to her or to
me by toasting her as often as you please, for I’ve toasted her all
these years and there are still no symptoms of her turning Brown.”
* * * * *
Minister (who struggles to exist on $600 a year with wife and six
children)--“We are giving up meat as a little experiment, Mrs.
Dasher.”
Wealthy parishioner--“Oh, yes! One can live so well on fish, poultry,
game, and plenty of nourishing wines.”
* * * * *
A woman who traveled a great deal in the West was known as the most
inveterate “kicker” a certain hotel had ever known.
One evening after she had been served with dessert this lady, who was
always complaining, asked the waiter why the dish served her was
called “ice-cream pudding.”
“If you don’t like it, ma’am, I’ll bring you something else,”
suggested the polite negro.
“Oh, it’s very nice,” responded the lady. “What I object to is that it
should be called ice-cream pudding. It’s wrongly named. There should
be ice cream served with it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the waiter, “but that’s jest our name for it.
Lots o’ dishes that way. Dey don’t bring you a cottage with cottage
pudding, you know.”
* * * * *
During a certain cruise the first mate of a ship got to drinking to
excess and was intoxicated for several days. One day, after having
come out of this state, he examined the log book to see what had
passed during his period of semi-forgetfulness. He was horrified to
find entered in the book for the three days consecutively, “The first
mate is drunk to-day.” He did not want this to stand as it would
hardly be a good recommendation for him to the ship owners and asked
the captain to remove the entries.
The captain replied, “It is the truth, is it not?” “Yes, but--”
replied the mate. The captain interrupted him, “If it is the truth,
the truth must stand. It is written in ink and can not be removed
without injuring the book.”
A short time afterward the captain was taken ill and remained so for a
week, and it devolved upon the mate to keep the log book. The captain
on recovering from his illness got the book to examine it to see how
the mate had done his duty. Imagine his consternation when he read in
each of the seven days’ entries, “The captain is sober to-day.”
The captain immediately called the mate and indignantly questioned him
in regard to these entries. The mate replied, “It is the truth, is it
not?” “Yes, but--” replied the captain. The mate interrupted him, “If
it is the truth, the truth must stand, must it not? I have your word
that the writing in ink can not be erased.”
* * * * *
“It was the first week of his honeymoon,” said the hotel barber, “and
he came in and sat down near the door to wait his turn. I yelled
‘Next’ at him two or three times when my chair was vacant, but he was
dreaming and didn’t hear me. Finally I touched him on the shoulder and
told him I was ready for him.
“‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
“‘Why, get in the chair if you want anything,’ I replied. ‘This is a
barber shop.’
“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and then he got into the chair. He leaned back,
so I let the chair down and shaved him. He didn’t have a word to say.
When I finished him up he got out of the chair and took the check over
to the cashier. He paid and started out. When halfway through the door
he stopped.
“‘Say,’ he said to me, ‘what did you do to me?’
“‘I shaved you,’ I said.
“‘Darn the luck,’ he replied, ‘I wanted a haircut.’”
* * * * *
The little daughter of a homeopathic physician received a ring with a
pearl in it on the Christmas tree. Two days later she poked her head
tearfully in at the door of her father’s office.
“Papa,” she sobbed, “Papa, I’ve lost the little pill out of my ring.”
* * * * *
He was from Pittsburg, Pa., and was stopping at the Manhattan Hotel.
He wanted to telephone to a town about thirty miles away. He asked the
girl on the switchboard to get him long-distance, and followed it up
with asking the price.
“It will cost you 50 cents for three minutes,” she said sweetly.
“Fifty cents! Ye gods!” cried the man. “I don’t want to buy stock in
the telephone company. I only want to talk a minute or so.
Why--why--out in Pittsburg we can call up all Hades for 50 cents!”
“Yes, I know, sir,” replied the girl, “but isn’t that within your city
limits?”
* * * * *
General St. Clair Mulholland, veteran and historian of the civil war,
tells an incident showing the utter worthlessness of Confederate paper
money at the close of the war. “Shortly after Lee’s surrender,” says
the General, “I was a short distance from Richmond. The Confederate
soldiers were going home to become men of peace again and were
thinking about their farms. One had a lame, broken-down horse which he
viewed with pride. ‘Wish I had him, Jim,’ said the other. ‘What’ll you
take for him? I’ll give you $20,000 for him.’ ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘Give
you $50,000.’ ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘Give you $100,000,’ his friend said.
‘Not much,’ replied Jim, ‘I just gave $120,000 to have him shod.’”
* * * * *
The Magistrate--“You seem to have committed a very grave assault on
the defendant just because he differed from you in an argument.”
The Defendant--“There was no help for it, your worship. The man is a
perfect idiot.”
The Magistrate--“Well, you must pay a fine of 50 francs and costs, and
in future you should try and understand that idiots are human beings,
the same as you and I.”
* * * * *
Sentimental Young Lady--“Ah Professor! what would this old oak say if
it could talk?”
Professor--“It would say, ‘I am an elm.’”
* * * * *
“You needn’t begin jollying me,” said the gruff man to the man who had
land to sell. “I’m not a man that can be affected by flattery. When
I--”
“That’s just what I said to my boss,” interrupted the agent. “I told
him, when he suggested your name to me, that it was a relief to call
on a man who did not expect to be praised and flattered to his face
all the time. I tell you, Mr. Grump, this city has mighty few men such
as you. Nine men out of ten are simply dying to have some one tell
them how great they are, but you are above such weakness. Any one can
see that at a glance. I’m glad of it. It’s helpful to me to meet a
man who rises superior to the petty tactics of the average solicitor.
It’s a real and lasting benefit, and an instructive experience.”
Ten minutes later, after a few more such comments on the part of the
agent, the man who could not be flattered into signing the contract
was asking which line his name should be written upon.
* * * * *
Billy Martin, aged four, came to his mother and in great ecstasy
exclaimed, “Oh, mother! Louise and Carberry found such a nice dead
cat, and they are going to have a funeral, and can I go?” Permission
was given, and when Billy returned he was questioned as to the outcome
of the funeral.
“They did not have it at all.”
“And why not?”
“Mother,” was the answer, “the cat was too dead.”
* * * * *
The late H. C. Bunner when editor of “Puck,” once received a letter
accompanying a number of would-be jokes in which the writer asked:
“What will you give me for these?” “Ten yards start,” was Bunner’s
generous offer, written beneath the query.
* * * * *
One day Riley was riding on top of a ’bus in London with his friend
Casey. He was nearly worn out with several hours’ sight-seeing and the
bustle and excitement of the London street, the hoi polloi, the
Billingsgate and the din and rattle were becoming almost unbearable
when they came in sight of Westminster Abbey. Just as they did so,
the chimes burst forth in joyous melody, and he said to Casey, “Isn’t
it sublime? Isn’t it glorious to hear those chimes pealing and doesn’t
it inspire one with renewed vigor?” Casey leaned over, with hand to
his ear, and said, “You’ll have to speak a little louder, Riley; I
can’t hear you.” Riley continued, “Those magnificent chimes. Do you
not hear them pealing? Do they not imbue you with a feeling of almost
reverence? Do they not awaken tender memories of the past?” Casey
again leaned forward and said, “I can’t hear you. You’ll have to speak
louder.” Riley got as close to him as possible and said, “Do you not
hear the melodious pealing of the chimes? Do they not recall the
salutation of old Trinity on a Sabbath morning? Do they not take you
back into the dim vistas of the past when the world was young, and
touch your heart with a feeling of pathos?” Casey put his mouth close
to Riley’s ear and said, “Those d-- bells are making such a racket,
Riley, that I can’t hear you.”
* * * * *
Four grinning urchins sat on the street curb eulogizing ex-President
Roosevelt.
“Say, dat guy Roosevelt ’ll fight at de drop of de hat!” declared one
youngster. “I read dat durin’ a talk at de White House one of de party
said somethin’ the President wouldn’ stan’ for an’ he leans over an
gets de guy’s ear!”
* * * * *
“Have you ever had any experience in canvassing for subscription
books?” asked the man at the desk.
“No, sir,” said the applicant for a job, “but I can put up a good
talk.”
“Well, take a copy of this work and go and see if you can get an
order. I’ll give you half a day to make the trial.”
The applicant went away.
In an hour or two he returned.
“What luck?” inquired the man at the desk.
“I’ve got an order for this book in full morocco from your wife, sir.”
“You’ll do, young man.”
* * * * *
In Alabama they tell this story to illustrate Senator Morgan’s ability
as an advocate. A negro of well-known thieving proclivities was on
trial for stealing a mule. Morgan defended and cleared him. As lawyer
and client were walking out of the courtroom Mr. Morgan said: “Rastus,
did you steal the mule?” “Well, Marse Morgan, it was jes like dis: I
really thought I did steal dat mule, but after what you said to the
jury I was convince’ I didn’t.”
* * * * *
Uncle Walter, with his little niece Ruth in his lap, was about to
telephone a message to a distant city. While waiting for the
connection to be made little Ruth asked if she might talk over the
open wire. The young lady operator heard the question and said, “Yes,
please let her.”
Ruth, taking the receiver, first told her name. Then the operator
asked her where she was, and to this Ruth replied:
“I am in Uncle Walter’s lap--don’t you wish you were?”
* * * * *
Apropos of vanity, Senator Root told at Yale about a politician who,
the day before he was to make a certain speech, sent a forty-one-page
report of it to all the papers. On page 20 appeared this paragraph:
“But the hour grows late, and I must close. (No, no! Go on! Go on!)”
* * * * *
Two women from the country were at the circus for the first time. They
were greatly taken with the menagerie. At last they came to the
hippopotamus, and stood for several minutes in silent wonder, then one
turned to the other and said, “My, Mandy, ain’t--he--_plain_?”
* * * * *
Senator Ingalls was always quick at retort, although he was himself a
subject of some sharp shafts. Once he was attacked by Senator Eli
Saulsbury, of Delaware, the second smallest State in the Union. He
disposed of the whole matter by saying, “I thank the gentleman from
that great State, which has three counties at low tide and two
counties at high tide, for his advice.”
* * * * *
A young and bashful professor was frequently embarrassed by jokes his
girl pupils would play on him. These jokes were so frequent that he
decided to punish the next perpetrators, and the result of this
decision was that two girls were detained an hour after school, and
made to work some difficult problems, as punishment.
It was the custom to answer the roll-call with quotations, so the
following morning, when Miss A’s name was called, she rose, and,
looking straight in the professor’s eye, repeated: “With all thy
faults I love thee still,” while Miss B’s quotation was: “The hours I
spend with thee, dear heart, are as a string of pearls to me.”
* * * * *
Archbishop Patrick J. Ryan, of Philadelphia, once received a call from
Wayne McVeagh, in company with Mr. Roberts, president of the
Pennsylvania system at the time that McVeagh was counsel for that
railroad. “Your Grace,” said Mr. McVeagh, “Mr. Roberts, who always
travels with his counsel, will, undoubtedly, get you passes over all
the railroads in the United States, if in return you will get him a
pass to Paradise.” “I would do so gladly,” flashed the archbishop, “if
it were not for separating him from his counsel.”
* * * * *
On one of his collecting trips through Scotland the eminent English
geologist, Hugh Miller, at the end of the day gave to a servant his
bag of specimen stones which he had labored all day to collect, to be
carried some miles to his home. Later, while sitting unobserved in a
corner of the village inn, he heard the man communicating to a friend
in Gaelic his experience with the “mad Englishman,” as he called him,
in the following manner:
“He gave me his bag to carry home by a short-cut across the hills
while he walked by another road. I was wondering why it was so
fearfully heavy, and when I got out of his sight I made up my mind to
see what was in it. I opened it, and what do you think it was?
Stones!”
“Stones!” exclaimed his companion, opening his eyes. “Stones! Well,
that beats all I ever heard or knew of one of them. And did you carry
it?”
“Carry it! Do you think I was as mad as himself? No, no. I emptied
them all out of the bag, but I filled it again from the stone-heap
near the house, and gave him good measure for his money.”
* * * * *
Former Representative Gibson, of Tennessee, had a voice that would
play tricks with him. It would work all right for a few minutes, and
then it would stop entirely, and Gibson would be left gasping for a
moment or two, high and dry in the middle of his argument, until his
voice came back again. He was making a tariff speech one day, sailing
along in fine shape. “Why, Mr. Speaker,” he shouted, “the tariff is
like a pair of suspenders. Uncle Sam needs it to keep up his--”
Right there his voice broke. Gibson couldn’t say a word.
“Trousers!” yelled one member.
“Pants!”
“Breeches!”
By that time the voice came back--“to keep up his revenues,” said
Gibson, glaring around at his tormentors.
* * * * *
Senator Tillman not long ago piloted a plain farmer-constituent around
the Capitol for a while, and then, having some work to do on the
floor, conducted him to the Senate gallery.
After an hour or so the visitor approached a gallery doorkeeper and
said: “My name is Swate. I am a friend of Senator Tillman. He brought
me here and I want to go out and look around a bit. I thought I would
tell you so I can get back in.”
“That’s all right,” said the doorkeeper, “but I may not be here when
you return. In order to prevent any mistake I will give you the
password so you can get your seat again.”
Swate’s eyes rather popped out at this. “What’s the word?” he asked.
“Idiosyncrasy.”
“What?”
“Idiosyncrasy.”
“I guess I’ll stay in,” said Swate.
* * * * *
The Willoughbys had said good-by to Mrs. Kent. Then Mr. Willoughby
spoke thoughtfully:
“It was pleasant of her to say that about wishing she could see more
of people like us, who are interested in real things, instead of the
foolish round of gaiety that takes up so much of her time and gives
her so little satisfaction, wasn’t it?”
His wife stole a sidewise glance at his gratified face and a satirical
smile crossed her own countenance.
“Very pleasant, George,” she said clearly. “But what I knew she meant,
and what she knew that I knew she meant, was that my walking-skirt is
an inch too long and my sleeves are old style, and your coat, poor
dear, is beginning to look shiny in the back.”
“Why--what--how--” began Mr. Willoughby helplessly; then he shook his
head and gave it up.
* * * * *
Mrs. Wharton, the novelist, has never described any blunder of the
so-called smart set quite as pathetic as one that actually happened to
herself. A young man of a particularly old family, who sat next to her
at dinner, said: “I’m terribly frightened to meet you, Mrs. Wharton,”
and when asked the origin of his terrors, explained: “I’ve always
heard you’re such a frightful blackleg.”
* * * * *
Rosenthal, the pianist, speaks eight or ten languages. But his
knowledge of idiomatic English has not always been sufficient to
enable him to follow all the critics have said about his pyrotechnic
playing. The other day, reading over the latest batch of clippings in
the manager’s office, he suddenly asked: “Vat iss ‘Fourt’ of July
interpretation?”
“Fourth of July?” was the reply, “Don’t you know the Fourth of July?
Why, the national holiday--everything noble and patriotic--George
Washington--Battle of Bunker Hill--the Declaration of Independence--”
“Ah! I see,” said the pianist, “Un grand compliment!”
* * * * *
Representative Cushman, of Washington, once came to Speaker Cannon
with a letter written by the speaker himself.
“Mr. Speaker,” he said, “I got this letter from you yesterday and I
couldn’t read it. I showed it to twenty or thirty fellows in the House
and, between us, we have spelled out all but the last three words.”
Uncle Joe took the letter and studied it, “The last three words,” he
said, “are ‘Personal and Confidential.’”
* * * * *
At a banquet held in a room the walls of which were adorned with many
beautiful paintings, a well-known college president was called upon to
respond to a toast. In the course of his remarks, wishing to pay a
compliment to the ladies present, and designating the paintings with
one of his characteristic gestures, he said: “What need is there of
these painted beauties when we have so many with us at this table?”
* * * * *
The late Charles Eliot Norton was wont to deplore the modern youth’s
preference of brawn to brain. He used to tell of a football game he
once witnessed: “Princeton had a splendid player in Poe--you will
remember little Poe?” and Professor Norton, thinking of “The Raven”
and “Annabel Lee,” said to the lad at his side: “He plays well, that
Poe!”
“Doesn’t he?” the youth cried. “Is he,” said Professor Norton, “any
relation to the great Poe?”
“Any relation?” said the youth. “Why, he is the great Poe.”
* * * * *
A fire broke out one day in Francis Wilson’s dressing-room at the
theater where he was playing.
He had some of his books around him, and in an agony of despair asked
himself:
“Which shall I save?” He glanced at his precious Chaucer, at some
Shakespearean volumes, when:
“Come, Mr. Wilson,” broke in at the door from a fireman, “you have not
a moment to lose.”
“Yes, yes. Coming,” replied Wilson absently.
He was looking for a special illuminated volume very dear to him.
“Come, Wilson,” cried his manager; “come, get out!”
“All right, all right,” said Wilson, and, grabbing some clothes in one
hand, he snatched with the other the nearest volume and ran to the
street. There he looked at the huge volume in his arms. It was the
city directory.
* * * * *
A city gentleman was recently invited down to the country for “a day
with the birds.” His aim was not remarkable for its accuracy, to the
great disgust of the man in attendance, whose tip was generally
regulated by the size of the bag.
“Dear me!” at last exclaimed the sportsman, “but the birds seem
exceptionally strong on the wing this year.”
“Not all of ’em, sir,” was the answer. “You’ve shot at the same bird
about a dozen times. ’E’s a-follerin’ you about, sir.”
“Following me about? Nonsense! Why should a bird do that?”
“Well, sir,” came the reply. “I dunno, I’m sure, unless ’e’s ’angin’
’round you for safety.”
* * * * *
A lady was calling on some friends one summer afternoon. The talk
buzzed along briskly, fans waved and the daughter of the house kept
twitching uncomfortably, frowning and making little smothered
exclamations of annoyance. Finally, with a sigh, she rose and left the
room.
“Your daughter,” said the visitor, “seems to be suffering from the
heat.”
“No,” said the hostess. “She is just back home from college and she is
suffering from the family grammar.”
* * * * *
“It ain’t everybody I’d put to sleep in this room,” said old Mrs.
Jinks to the fastidious and extremely nervous young minister who was
spending a night at her house.
“This here room is full of sacred associations to me,” she went on, as
she bustled around opening shutters and arranging the curtains. “My
first husband died in that bed with his head on these very pillers,
and poor Mr. Jinks died settin’ right in that corner. Sometimes when I
come into the room in the dark I think I see him settin’ there still.
“My own father died layin’ right on that lounge under the winder. Poor
pa! He was a Speeritualist, and he allus said he’d appear in this room
after he died, and sometimes I’m foolish enough to look for him. If
you should see anything of him to-night you’d better not tell me; for
it’d be a sign to me that there was something in Speeritualism, and
I’d hate to think that.
“My son by my first man fell dead of heart disease right where you
stand. He was a doctor, and there’s two skeletons in that closet that
belonged to him, and half a dozen skulls in that lower drawer.
“There, I guess you’ll be comfortable.
“Well, good night, and pleasant dreams.”
* * * * *
A woman suffrage lecturer brought down the house with the following
argument: “I have no vote, but my groom has, but I am sure if I were
to go to him and say, ‘John, will you exercise the franchise?’ he
would reply, ‘Please, mum, which horse be that?’”
* * * * *
“Maude was afraid the girls wouldn’t notice her engagement ring.” “Did
they?” “_Did_ they? Six of them recognized it at once.”
* * * * *
Mr. George Broadhurst, author of the play, “The Man of the Hour,” is
an Englishman, and recently made a visit to his native country. After
having lived a week at one of the large hotels in London, he was
surprised on the evening of his departure, although at a very late
hour, to see an endless procession of waiters, maids, porters, and
pages come forward with the expectant smile and empty hand. When each
and all had been well bestowed, even boots and under-boots and then
another boots, he dashed for the four-wheeler that was to carry him
safely away.
Settling himself with a sigh of relief, he was about to be off when a
page popped his head into the window and breathlessly exclaimed:
“I beg pardon, sir, but the night-lift man says he’s waiting for a
message from you, sir.”
“A message from me?”
“Yes, sir; he says he cawn’t go to sleep without a message from you,
sir.”
“Really, he can’t go to sleep without a message from me?”