A servant went to consult a fortune-teller, and she returned wailing
dismally.
“Did she predict some great trouble?” her mistress asked, sympathetically.
“Och! mum, sich terrible news,” moaned Norah, rocking backward and
forward, wringing her hands. “She tould me that my father wurks hard for
a living shoveling coals and tending foires.”
“But that’s no disgrace or sorrow,” said her mistress, a trifle vexed.
“Och! mum, my poor father,” sobbed Norah, “he’s bin dead these noine
years!”
* * * * *
An amusing story of amateur sport comes from Rockville, Maryland, where
each year there is held a series of races “for all comers.”
The sun was blazing on a field of hot, excited horses and men, all
waiting for a tall raw-boned beast to yield to the importunities of the
starter and get into line.
The patience of the starter was nearly exhausted. “Bring up that horse!”
he shouted. “Bring him up! You’ll get into trouble pretty soon if you
don’t!”
The rider of the refractory beast, a youthful Irishman, yelled back: “I
can’t help it. This here’s been a cab horse, and he won’t start till the
door shuts, an’ I ain’t got no door!”
* * * * *