* * * * *
A JOLLY OLD TAR.
A London newspaper tells an amusing sea tale which concerns the recent
experience of the Captain of a certain large sailing-vessel, who is
probably the most polite officer in the whole mercantile service. He
has, however, a great idea of his own importance, and loses no
opportunity of impressing this upon his crew, who, while good tars and
generally far from mutinous, do not always relish the Captain's airs, as
they call them.
In particular, for instance, he insists upon being addressed as "Sir" by
every one on board. One day a new hand joined the ship, and a short time
after leaving harbor, being a well-seasoned old salt, he was intrusted
with the wheel. The Captain came up and put the usual question, "How's
her head?"
"Nor'-by-east," answered the old tar, very gruffly, taking the customary
hitch in his trousers.
"My man," suavely answered the Captain, "on this craft, when one of the
crew speaks to me, he gives me a title of respect. Don't you think you
might do so, too? Now how's her head?"
"Nor'-by-east, I tell yer," shouted the tar, displaying not a little
irritation.
"I'm afraid you don't quite understand me," responded the Captain,
good-humoredly. "Let me relieve you at the wheel, and then do you take
my place and ask me the question. I will then show you how it should be
answered."
They accordingly changed places.
"'Ow's her 'ead?" roared the tar.
"Nor'-by-east, sir," replied the Captain, with gentle emphasis on the
"sir."
"Then keep her so, my man, whilst I goes forrard and has a smoke," was
the startling rejoinder from the old reprobate, who calmly commenced to
suit the action to the word, and disappeared up by the forecastle,
lighting a match as he went.
* * * * *
PAT'S RETORT.
Pat has turned up again in a collection of anecdotes. Here is a specimen
of his wit lately come to hand:
A one-legged Yankee orator, who had been very successfully chaffing an
Irishman, was finally asked,
"Oi say, soor, how did yez lose your leg?"
"Well," replied the Yankee, "I found, when I came to look up my
ancestry, that I had a little Irish blood in my veins, and becoming
convinced that it had all settled in my left leg, I had it cut off at
once."
"Bejabers!" cried Pat. "Phot a pity it hodn't shettled in your head!"
* * * * *
BOBBIE'S PLAN.
Whene'er at night I'd know the time
And cannot see the clocks,
I feel about beneath my crib
For those upon my socks.
* * * * *
"It is very naughty of you, Wilbur, to answer back to mamma in this way.
Where did you ever learn to do that?"
"Watchin' papa, I des, mamma," said Wilbur, "He most generally answers
back."
* * * * *
SINGULAR CLOCKS.
In an answer to a correspondent who asks, "What is the most curious
material out of which a time-piece has been made," a London journal
prints the following rather interesting item:
Bread, we think, is the most curious material out of which a clock has
ever been constructed. There was, and may still be, in Milan a clock
made of bread. The maker was a native of Milan, who devoted three years
of his time to the task. He was very poor, and being without means to
purchase the necessary metal for the making of a clock, he sat apart
regularly a portion of his bread each day, eating the crust and saving
the soft part. To solidify this he made use of a certain salt, and when
the various pieces were dry they became perfectly hard and insoluble in
water. The clock was of good size, and kept fair time.
Another strange clock was exhibited some years ago in Liverpool. It was
constructed of pins, buttons, and all sorts of odds and ends by a pauper
named Mercer. The maker of this extraordinary time-piece thus describes
it himself: The back and the front of the clock were made from iron
bed-laths, while the barrel was part of a large brass ferule, the ends
being brass buttons hammered out. The barrel arbor had originally been
the blade of a shoe-maker's awl; the main and several other wheels were
nothing more nor less than suspender buttons from the maker's own
trousers, while the cog teeth were portions of bygone knitting-needles.
The teeth of the centre wheels had been boot-rivets. In the dial there
were one hundred separate pieces.
* * * * *
A NONSENSE RHYME.
Oh, wouldn't it be splendid,
Oh, wouldn't it be grand,
If I could play the ear-drum
In an elastic band!
End of Project Gutenberg's Harper's Round Table, February 4, 1896, by Various