A soap box orator picked the little square at the side of the fire house for his meeting. He was downing every thing. The desk man leaned against the iron chain across the station door, and listened intently.

The orator was urging his listeners to strike. He told about conditions in a nearby mill.

He shouted, “Only twelve dollars a week I How can a man be a Christian on twelve dollars a week?”

The desk man shouted the answer.

“How can he be anything else?”

There is always a catch. This is a free country with a free speech, free press, and a man can say what he thinks, except to his wife, his boss, or a six-foot guy with a protruding jaw.


Away from the city, approaches to the old form of square dances are still in vogue. In one summer community, at a dance sponsored by the firemen to attract contributions of the summer residents to the department’s apparatus fund, a rather sober fellow found that he had for the partner of a particular dance, a very vivacious, over-decorated young lady.

She looked at her partner and remarked:

“I bet you don’t know who you are dancing with, you lucky boy.”

The fellow confessed that he did not and she told him. She thought that her name, which meant something in the city, might also be impressive in the country.

The fellow looked at her and asked:

“Do you know who you are dancing with?”

Without waiting for an answer, he said, “No one,” and walked away.

As one young married woman advised another young lady:

“If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again.”


The fireman back stage commented to a scene shifter what a funny lot people are. He said:

“Now you tell some one that there are 270,000,061 stars in the sky, and he’ll believe you. But if he sees a sign, ‘No Smoking,’ he seems to have his doubts about it.”

As one girl remarked, “Everything I want to do is either illegal, immoral or fattening.”


The boys complained and that meant that MacGregor who was chef at the station for that week, had to complain to the grocer.

He marched into the grocery store, as though ready for battle, and put a bag on the counter.

The grocer looked into the bag and asked:

“What’s wrong with those eggs?”

“Too small for their age.”

As Confucius remarked, “It is better to have halitosis than no breath at all.”


Sam was an old colored man who was very much liked, even though, as a worker, he was a poor financial risk. Given plenty of time, he did his work well, but he certainly knew most every one in town. He was cleaning the window in front of the station, when a town character went by.

With much disgust, he said, “Dere goes dat slaternly Mandy Jones wid her ten pickaninnies. She sho do look repugnant.”

The man at the desk seemed much surprised.

“What again?”


Mike was a town character—he was good at heart, a very hard worker, but surly, unless one knew him well.

He was engaged to grade the grounds about the new fire station, so that they could be seeded and landscaped. A benevolent old lady who delighted to give sugar to horses, watched him lead his horse around the ground.

“What kind of a horse is it—a male or a female?”

Mike looked at her with disgust.

“What difference would that make to anybody but a horse?”

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