Mouldy Mike—These ’ere newspapers is just a pack o’ lies, that’s wot they
are.
Ragged Robert—Wot yeh been readin’.
“I read an account of a feller from New York wot went inter a big hotel
in a small town, an’ said he wanted to buy the hotel, an’ made ’em an
offer, an’ give ’em a check wot wasn’t no good, an’ lived there a week on
the fat o’ the land ’fore he had to light out w’en the check came back,
an’ it never cost him a cent—that’s wot the paper said.”
“Mebby that’s true.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“How do yer know?”
“How do I know? Why, quick as I read it I tried it meself—an’ they kicked
me out.”
* * * * *
Pat, with a little bit of drink in him, was standing on the sidewalk
sneering at a Jewish peddler. The peddler stood the jeers for some time,
but Pat became too personal.
“Don’t you know,” said the Hebrew, “that the country is financed by the
Jews?”
“Maybe they does,” retorted Pat, “but bejabbers the Irish runs it.”
* * * * *
A sewerman returned home one distressingly hot day thoroughly exhausted,
to find his better-half also tired out after spending the greater part of
the day at the washtub. At the time he entered, however, she was seated,
fanning herself vigorously. “Ain’t ye got no supper?” he asked somewhat
angrily. “Supper, is it?” she asked. “Go on wid you! Me all tired out
from a hard day’s wurruk in the hate, an’ you come home an’ ask for yer
supper! Aisy indade for you all day down in a nice cool sewer!”
* * * * *
“Which would yez rather be in, Casey, an explosion or a collision?” asked
his friend McCarthy.
“In a collision,” replied Casey.
“Why?”
“Because in a collision, there yez are; but in an explosion, where are
yez?”
* * * * *
“What’s your name prisoner?”
“Casey, yer honor.”
“Your full name.”
“Casey, sorr, full or sober!”
* * * * *
“Arrah, me darlint,” cried Jamie O’Flanigan to his loquacious sweetheart,
who had given him no opportunity of even answering her remarks during a
two hours ride behind his little bay nags in his oyster wagon—“are yes
afther knowing why yer cheeks are like my ponies there?”
“Shure, and it’s because they’re red, is it?” quoth the blushing Bridget.
“Faith and a better reason than that, mavourneen. Because there is one of
them each side of a waggin’ tongue!”
* * * * *
Pat and Mike were passing the butcher’s stall, where there was a pair of
chickens for sale.
“We’ll buy them,” said Mike, “and who ever has the best dream to-night
can cook them for himself to-morrow.”
When they awoke that morning Pat related his dream.
“I dreamt that angels carried me up to heaven.”
“You’re right,” chimed Mike. “I saw you going up and thought you would
never come back, so I got up, cooked the fowls and ate them.”
* * * * *