—There are few things in the world more rasping than a file of unpaid bills.
—The ocean-steamer which breaks its shaft depends on its sails. So docs the man who makes shafts.
—The man who blows out the gas upon retiring is father to the boy who tries to ignite his cigarette by touching it to an electric light.
—An araeteur poetess anxiously wails; “O, where can I find rest?” Get a position as saleswoman in a store that doesn’t advertise, darling.
—A New York plumber is said to have died from overwork. It is terribly hard on a man to hug the cook and solder a sink spout at the same time.
—“ Yes,” said the culprit, “I’m a thief, but I don’t want anybody to insinuate that my crime was the result of unfortunate stock speculation, and I won’t have anybody say that l have hitherto borne an unblemished reputation. I have been a thief from infancy, and never bought a share of stock in my life. Call me eccentric, if you please, but I don’t want to be mixed up with any of your amateurs. I’m a professional, I am/’
—An exchange remarks that weiss beer is thawed sand-paper. Well, let weiss beer alone and drink ginger ale. That is pepper and wind, and can hurt nobody.
—A German professor thinks that slates lead to short-sightedness in school-children. A saloon-keeper down-town thinks slates similarly affect some of his customers.
—A young lady, being^told at a recent fire to stand back or else the hose would be turned on her, replied : “Oh, I don’t care ; they are striped on both sides, anyway.”
—A fence-rail was blown right through the body of a mule by the Mississippi cyclone, so the story goes. Even a cyclone has to approach a mule sideways to get the better of him.
—Elderly philanthropist, to small boy who is vainly striving to pull a door-bell above his reach—”Let me help you, my little man.” (Pulls the bell.) Small boy—“ Now you had better run, or we’ll both get a licking.”
— A sober resident in a small village on the east coast occasioned quite a commotion by saying that the bodies of three children had just been washed ashore. The citizens were indignant when after much inquiry the sober resident said : “I fell you they were. They were washed ashore by their mother. You don’t suppose she could take ’em out into the middle of the ocean to wash ’em, do you ?”
—Little Sam Wrinkler, on visiting a neighboring family last Saturday, was addressed by the lady of the house : ” What can I do for you, my little man ?”
she asked. “ I dunno,” said Sam. ” Mamma told me not to ask for cake or pie, as 1 did last time, and I’m sorter at a loss what to ask for, for 1 don’t know what else ye’ve got in the pantry, anyhow, but I can put up with almost anything that’s handy.”
—At a recent pigeon-shooting at Houston, a gentleman who had claimed to be a crack shot missed six successive birds, and his disgusted friends, who had been betting on him, were mad enough to drown him. “ What kind of shooting is that ?” asked one of them indignantly. ” I know it’s my fault. 1 am too sol>er. No sober man can expect to hit birds that fly so crooked. If I had had three more beers I’d have scattered feathers, and don’t you forget it.”
—“ Don’t you think it’s warm ?” inquired a Colorado man. “ Not especially.” “ Well, I s’pose it’s because I’ve got my winter flannels on. I always buy six red flannel undershirts in September, and put one on. In October I put on another; in November, another.” “What! not over the rest?” “Yes, over the rest; in December, another; and so on until the ist of March, when I take off the top one ; in April I take off another, and so on until I take off the last one.” ” Then what do you do ?” “I take a bath.”
—It was in the Carolina backwoods. A country couple and parson. When he had finished the ceremony he said: ” An’ them ’uns who God have joined —” ” Stop thar, parson,” said the groom ; ” don’t say them ’uns, say these ‘uns;’
” John,” said the parson, “ I tech you at school, and 1 say them ’uns.” ” These ’uns,” shouted the groom, drawing a pistol. The parson, seeing the movement, fired through his surplice, and the groom dropped dead, winging the parson as he went down. There was a lively fusillade of perhaps thirty shots. When the smoke cleared half a dozen men were on the floor. The bride, peeping over the pulpit, to which she had fled for refuge, gazed mournfully on the scene, and said: ” Them a-self-cockin’ pistols is a playin’-with my prospecks.”