"Trifles light as air
Are, to the jealous mind,
Confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ."
Othello demands the handkerchief be produced, and repeats this several
times in order to make it more effective.
The audience, or some of them at least, failed to appreciate this
repetition, and grew decidedly restless.
At last, when for the third time Othello called for the handkerchief,
somebody yelled out.
"Wipe yer nose on yer slaive, ye naygur, and let the play prosade."
[Illustration]
Of course you all know that of late years a certain class of women have
taken to enjoying man's attire.
Personally I don't like it.
There are some who do.
When I mentioned my prejudice to Bob Corwin only the other day he
fairly jumped on me.
"Disapprove of it!" he said, "Great Scott, no! I wouldn't have it
different for the world. Why, it was as good as a circus this morning
to watch and listen to my wife when her collar button rolled under the
dresser."
[Illustration]
It was this same good little wife of Bob's who made something of a
mistake a while back.
They had a pretty maid at their house, and perhaps Bob, quite
naturally, let his eyes follow her a few times in an absent-minded way.
Men frequently do that, you know--don't mean anything wrong at all, and
just simply--well, look.
Of course his better half noticed it.
Now, she was no more jealous than the majority of her sex, but somehow
she foolishly began to suspect that he was in the habit of kissing the
girl in the kitchen and was determined to catch him in the act.
One Saturday night she saw him pass quietly into the kitchen.
The hired girl was out, and the kitchen dark.
The jealous wife took a few matches in her hand, and, hastily placing a
shawl over her head, as the hired girl often did, entered the back door.
Immediately she was seized and kissed and embraced in an ardent manner.
[Illustration]
With heart almost bursting, the wife prepared to administer a terrible
rebuke to the faithless spouse.
Tearing herself away from his fond embrace, she struck a match and
stood face to face with Patrick, the hired man.
My colored barber takes an affectionate interest in my personal
appearance.
No doubt he knows how much depends on my presenting a handsome front
while on the stage.
"Youh hair 'pears to be fallin' out, boss," he remarked, yesterday,
while trimming my locks, "I reckons I kin save it.'"
"All right," I said, promptly, "save it if you want to. I've got no use
for it."
Perhaps he makes sofa cushions for the trade.
"I hear your name was proposed as a member of the Bon Ton Colored
Artists' Club. Did you get in?" I asked him later on.
"Not dat time, boss. You see, dey white-balled me," he said.
Adolphus has a streak of humor in him.
[Illustration]
He is particularly sensitive to the comic-paper jokes connected with a
darky's love for chickens and watermelons.
As the years roll on those chestnuts never seem to die.
The barber grew so touchy that he hated the sight of fowls, and even
refused to eat eggs.
One day his next door neighbor in Jersey City looked over the wall
dividing their places.
"Seem to be busy, Adolphus--what you doing?"
"Jest plantin' some of my seeds, dat's all," remarked Adolphus.
"H'm, thought it looked like you was planting one of my hens."
"Dat's all right, Mr. Johnsing--de seed am inside," said Adolphus.
Adolphus was telling me recently about the poor success a book agent
had with his wife.