Captain George Walker, of Savannah, used to have a hand on his Georgia plantation who loved ease and fishing. When he wasn’t fishing he was loafing.

One night there was a rain almost heavy enough to be called a cloudburst and the next morning all the low places on the plantation were flooded two feet deep. Passing his tenant’s cabin, Captain Walker found him seated in an easy chair at the kitchen door fishing in a small puddle of muddy water that had formed there.

“Henry, you old fool,” said Captain Walker, “what are you doing there?”

“Boss,” said Henry, “I’s jes’ fishin’.”

“Well, don’t you know there are no fish there?” demanded Captain Walker.

“Yas, suh,” said Henry; “I knows dat. But this yere place is so handy!”

Frank McIntyre, the plump comedian, played vaudeville dates one season. One night after his turn he dropped into a short-order restaurant near the theatre for a bite, before going to bed. Sitting next to him was a former circus acrobat, who did a horizontal-bar act on the same bill with McIntyre.

The acrobat was sawing away at the sinewy knee-joint of a fried chicken leg. Though the knife was sharp and he was athletic, he made but little headway.

He waved his arm toward a bottle of ketchup which stood upon the counter near McIntyre’s elbow.

“Say, bo,” he requested, “pass de liniment, will you? De sea gull’s got de rheumatism.”

Two American performers, filling vaudeville engagements in London, took lodgings together in a house on a side street back of Covent Gardens. Late at night, following the first day of their joint tenancy they left the theatre in company and, having had a bite and a drink at a chophouse set out afoot for the new diggings. One of the pair undertook to show the way. The trouble was, though, that for the life of him he couldn’t recall the name of the street where the house stood nor the number of the house. For nearly an hour they wandered through deserted byways seeking their destination. Finally they happened upon a street which wore a familiar look. Sure enough, half way down the block stood the house where they were quartered.

With glad cries the tired pair hurried to it. Here a fresh difficulty arose. They had no latch keys. Coming away that afternoon neither had thought to ask their landlady for a key. However, the second man figured he could pick the lock. He worked at it vainly for another half hour while his companion fidgeted about. Finally in disgust and despair he gave it up as a bad job, and the two of them went to a hotel where they spent the remainder of the night.

Now comes the point of the story: The man who could not remember the name of the street, nor the number of the house, was Barton the Memory Wizard. The man who could not master the lock was Houdini, the Handcuff King.

A Broadway actor got carried away by the spirit of the prohibition times and remained carried away for several days. He came to himself in his own room without knowing exactly how he got there. A friend sat beside him.

“Hello,” he said, as he opened his eyes, “what day is this?”

“This,” said his friend, “is Thursday.”

The invalid thought it over a minute.

“What became of Wednesday?” he asked.

Mrs. Pat Campbell has rather a caustic wit, as her friends—and more especially her enemies—can testify. On one occasion an interview with her was besought by a London playwright for whom personally Mrs. Campbell did not care very deeply. The playwright was a self-educated cockney. Sometimes in moments of forgetfulness he lapsed into the idioms of his youth.

He desired an opportunity to tender Mrs. Campbell a play he had just completed and in which he hoped she might consent to take the star rôle. She sat in silence while he read the script, act by act.

When he had finished he looked up, expecting some word of approval or at least of comment from his auditor. Mrs. Campbell, with a noncommital look on her face, said nothing at all. An awkward pause ensued.

“Ahem,” said the dramatist at length, “I’m afraid my play seemed rather long to you?”

“Long? Well, rather!” drawled the lady. “It took you over two hours to read it—without the h’s.”

Two French Canadians were traveling down a Quebec river in a houseboat. One of them knew the river and the other did not.

They anchored for the night on a bar. During the night the river rose and along toward daylight the craft went adrift. Three hours later the motion awoke one of the travelers. He poked his head out of the door. An entirely strange section of scenery was passing.

“Baptiste! Baptiste!” he yelled. “Get up! We ain’t here some more.”

“No, by gar!” said his companion after a quick glance at the surroundings—“we are twelve mile from here!”

On a hotel porch at a summer resort a visitor approached, in the dark, the spot where a beautiful young thing with bobbed hair and melting baby-blue eyes was sitting with an adoring youth.

As he neared the pair the newcomer heard her say: “Aren’t the stars just beautiful to-night? I love to sit and look at the stars on a night like this and think about science. Science is so interesting, so wonderful; don’t you think so? Now you take astronomy: Astronomers are such marvelous men! I can understand how they have been able to figure out the distance to the moon and to all the other planets, and the size of the sun, and how fast it travels and all. But how in the world do you suppose they ever found out the right names of all those stars?”

In a Southern town is a lady, socially prominent, who enjoys the reputation of being a modern Mrs. Malaprop. The latest speech attributed to her had to do with the ancient game of Scotia.

“I’ve often thought,” she said to a friend, “that I’d like to go in for golf, but somehow I have never gotten ’round to it; and, besides, I don’t understand the first thing about playing it. Why, if I wanted to hit the ball I wouldn’t know which end of the caddy to take hold of.”

Those who in their youth were addicted, or subsequently have been addicted to the good old American game of Seven-up will appreciate a little tale which Frank I. Cobb, of the New York World, told.

Cobb, who was born in Kansas and reared in Michigan, went to a town in the former state to call upon an elderly uncle. He arrived about suppertime. His aunt received him and welcomed him, telling him that her husband would probably be along shortly.

Time passed and still the old gentleman did not appear.

“I wonder,” said Cobb, “whether Uncle Henry has been detained at his shop?”

“Oh, no,” said his aunt in a resigned tone. “He’s down at Number Two Engine House, claiming Low.”

Harry Beresford, the actor, was born in England but has lived long enough in America practically to have recovered from it. One fall a friend sent him two tickets for one of the World’s Series ball games at the Polo Grounds, and he took with him to the game a newly arrived Englishman, a distant kinsman.

The stranger sat patiently enough through seven innings. The riotous proceeding was a puzzle to him but he was too polite to mention it. Then, when the mighty crowd, following the baseball custom, stood up to stretch, he rose, too, and started for the aisle.

“Hold on!” said Beresford. “It isn’t over yet.”

“I was only going to get a cup of tea, old chap,” explained his guest.

“You can’t get tea now,” said Beresford; “the game goes right on.”

“You mean to say there is no tea being served?” demanded the Englishman in amazement.

“Certainly not!” said Beresford.

“Well,” demanded the other, “what, then, is the purpose of the damned game?”

When Miss Annie Oakley, the famous rifle shot, was traveling through the country giving exhibitions of her skill at theatres, she reached a small town in Texas; and her manager inserted an advertisement in the home paper for a smart colored boy to assist in the performance. Applicants were instructed to apply at the stage door of the local opera house at one P. M. sharp.

When the manager arrived he found the passageway congested with little negroes, each eager to testify to his smartness. He made a selection, picking out a spry boy of about twelve. He took his applicant inside and stationed him near the wings.

“You will stand right here and not move,” he said. “When the curtain goes up, Miss Oakley will come out and talk to the audience for a few moments. Then I will balance a small apple on your forehead and the lady will go over on the other side of the stage yonder and shoot it off.”

The candidate grabbed for his hat, his eyes wildly rolling in search of the nearest path to safety.

“Mistah,” he demanded, “who’s goin’ to shoot whut apple offer whose haid? Me, w’y I wouldn’t let mah own mammy shoot no apple offer mah haid, let alone it’s some stranger!”

And he was gone.

The proprietor of a drug store in a small Indiana town was issuing from the front door of his place when a small boy came tearing ’round the corner at top gait with his head down and butted squarely into him.

“Hey, kid!” demanded the druggist. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m tryin’ to keep two boys from gittin’ into a fight,” panted the youngster.

“Who are the boys?” asked the druggist.

“I’m one of ’em.”

Included in my list of acquaintances is a gentleman who promotes sporting events. Originally he promoted foot-races, later he conducted balloon ascensions and parachute drops at county fairs and carnivals. Still later, he turned aviator himself and bought an early model aeroplane with which, in the period when flying was more of a novelty than it is at present, he gave exhibitions.

The members of a Catholic congregation in a suburb of New York City were striving to raise funds for a new rectory. They rented an old driving-park and gave a fair. For the crowning attraction on the final afternoon my friend was engaged to make a flight.

Now, the weather was lowering and the winds were capricious. Feeling a natural reluctance to trusting himself aloft under such circumstances the performer had recourse to an expedient he had employed on similar occasions. He sparred for time in the hope that darkness would come and so save him from taking the risk. He tinkered with his engine. He fiddled with the planes. He unscrewed this bolt and he screwed up that one.

The assembled crowd, grew impatient over the delay. Finally the parish priest, who was acting as master of ceremonies, approached the aeronaut and to him he said:

“My son, can’t you go ahead and give us the exhibition you promised us and for which we already have paid you in advance? These people have already been waiting more than an hour and a half for you to go up.”

“Father,” said my friend, “there’s a bunch of folks out in Burlington, Iowa, that have been waiting more’n eighteen months for me to go up.”

After a twenty years’ absence a gentleman returned to the little New England town where he had been born and where he spent his boyhood. In the neighborhood in which he had been reared he found but one of the original residents remaining, an elderly Irish lady. She welcomed him back home again, and they fell to talking of the boys and girls with whom he had grown up. Finally he asked:

“Tell me, Mrs. Daly, what ever became of poor little Jimmy McKenna who used to live in the shanty right down the street here?”

“Poor, is it?” echoed Mrs. Daly. “Poor nothin’! Jimmy McKenna had no schoolin’, as you may remember, but when he grew up he got into the truckin’ business and from that he turned to contractin’, and though he couldn’t read and write, he made a million.”

“Bully!” said the returned one. “And where is he now?”

“As to that,” said Mrs. Daly, “I couldn’t say. I hope, though, he’s in Heaven. You see, sor, here about two years ago, Jimmy went down to the gravel pit where some of the byes was in swimmin’, an’ it bein’ a warm day he took off his clothes and waded in, and he waded out too far and he got over his head and was drownded.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said the visitor. “To think of a boy who had no better start than Jim McKenna had doing so well in the world, and then meeting an end like that! And he made a million, you say? And yet he couldn’t read nor write.”

“No,” said Mrs. Daly, “nor swim.”

An American actor with a reputation for wit went to a luncheon given by a famous actress to several members of her supporting company. Among the guests of honor was an English leading man, who rather fancied himself—and showed it. He monopolized the conversation, speaking copiously and feelingly of himself, his personality and his merits.

From his place across the table the American eyed him with an enhancing disfavor. At length he turned to the man sitting next him on the right.

“Our British friend over there is by way of being a regular ass, isn’t he?” he asked in a whisper.

“Oh I’d hardly go so far as to say that,” answered his neighbor.

“Well, he’ll do, won’t he, till one comes?” said the American.

Tilted back in his chair on the boatstore porch overlooking the river sat Cap’n Joe Fowler, as typical a Kentuckian as the fag end of the last century produced. A packet bound from Cincinnati to New Orleans, landed. Up the steep slope of the wharf came a tourist lady from up North somewhere. In the crook of her arm this lady bore the first Mexican hairless dog Cap’n Joe had ever seen. The animal was no larger than a full grown rat; in fact it rather resembled a rat. It seemed a miserable, naked, sickly little thing which shivered even though the air was balmy and flinched with vague uneasiness at every sound.

As the lady drew close Cap’n Joe stood up and made a low bow to her.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said in his best company drawl, “but might a total stranger so far intrude upon you as to ask you a question?”

“You might” she said, her sharp accents in strong contrast to his deeper yet softer tones.

“Thank you, madam,” he said. “The question, madam, relates to the dog you air carrying. Is that your own dog?”

“It is,” she said.

“Is that the only dog you’ve got?”

“It is.”

“Madam,” said Cap’n Joe, “ain’t you mighty nigh out of dog?”

When George Bernard Shaw, as a young man, emerged from his native Ireland and moved to England he began writing a column for a London weekly publication.

At that time Oscar Wilde was enjoying his vogue as a wit and an epigram-maker. One evening an acquaintance, calling upon Wilde, happened upon a copy of the paper to which Shaw was a contributor and reading therein one of Shaw’s characteristic articles which was signed with the author’s initials, said to his host:

“I say, Wilde, who is this chap G. B. S. who’s doing a department for this sheet?”

“He’s a young Irishman named Shaw,” said Wilde. “Rather forceful, isn’t he?”

“Forceful,” echoed the other, “well, rather! My word, how he does cut and slash! He doesn’t seem to spare any one he knows. I should say he’s in a fair way to make himself a lot of enemies.”

“Well,” said Wilde, “as yet he hasn’t become prominent enough to have any enemies. But none of his friends like him.”

A group of big leaguers on their spring training trip were marooned by rain one morning so that they could not go to the ball field for practice. They sat under the portico of the Texas hotel where they were quartered and swapped small talk. An admiring ring of villagers surrounded them.

A languid, ragged negro drew near, anchoring himself at the outer edge of the audience. He laughed with loud appreciation at every sally from this or that visiting notable. He had the look about him of one seeking a suitable opportunity to solicit the gift of a small sum from some generous white stranger. But hour after hour passed with no proper opening until the forenoon was spent.

Suddenly the whistle on the canning factory across the street from the hotel let go with a blast and the hands came trooping out, bearing their lunch pails.

“Uh uh, dar she goes,” said the darky, as the siren voice died away. “Hit’s dinner time fur some folks—but jes’ twelve o’clock fur me.”

It was a striking coincidence that the new clerk at the soda-fountain was locally regarded as being a half-wit, and that the individual who approached him also happened to be the possessor of one of those fractional intellects.

“What’ll it be?” inquired semi-idiot number one.

“A glass of plain soda without flavor.”

“Without what flavor?”

The customer pondered this for a brief space.

“Without chocolate flavor,” he said.

“You can’t have it without chocolate flavor,” answered the soda-jerker. “Because we ain’t got no chocolate. You’ll have to take it without vanilly!”

A cockney music-hall performer, to a congenial group of performers in London, was describing what had happened the night before to a brother actor whom he spoke of affectionately as “ ’Arry.”

“Poor old ’Arry, ’e ’ad a most awful time. They wouldn’t even let ’im finish. Before ’e was ’arf through with the first verse of ’is opening song they began giving ’im the rarsberry proper. And w’en ’e quit, them blokes in the gallery ’issed ’im right off the stage. They ’issed and ’issed and kept on ’issing even after ’e was out of sight. Right after ’im I ’ad to go on.”

“How did your act go?” inquired one of the listeners.

“ ’Ow, I got over fine,” said the modest vaudevillian. “But right in the middle of my act they starts ’issing ’Arry again.”

The late Sam Davis, editor of the Carson Appeal, was known as the Oracle of the Nevada sage-brush. Once upon a time he was instructed by the San Francisco Examiner to meet Mme. Sarah Bernhardt at Reno and bring her over the mountains of California on her first tour of the Western Slope.

Davis was a most likable person. The great French actress became so fond of him that thereafter she declined to be interviewed by any other newspaperman during her sojourn on the Coast. If she had anything to say for publication, he said it for her.

The day came when the train bearing her private car was about to start on the long journey back East. As the locomotive bell was ringing, she put her hands upon his shoulders, kissed him upon either cheek, and then squarely upon the mouth, remarking, as she did so,

“The right cheek for the Carson Appeal, the left for the Examiner, the lips, my friend, for yourself.”

“Madam,” said Davis, without the slightest sign of bashfulness, “I also represent the Associated Press, which serves 380 papers west of the Mississippi River.”

A distinguished French diplomat lately put into a few words what I think is the best possible explanation yet offered as a reason for the failure of his countrymen to perceive what our national attitude is, touching on the post-war issues which so deeply concern France and, by the same token, the failure of our countrymen to make out what the people of France want and what they are striving for.

“To begin with,” said the distinguished visitor, “the two races speak separate languages—always a bar to the adjustment of contrary points of view. But even where you find a Frenchman who speaks your tongue or an American who speaks mine, there still remains an obstacle.

“For example:

“When you set forth a proposition to an American and he says ‘Yes,’ he means, ‘I’ll do it.’

“But when you state the same thing to a Frenchman and he answers ‘Yes,’ what he really means is ‘I understand what you are saying.’ ”

A Jewish friend of mine told me of a co-religionist of his who had acquired a fortune. This gentleman had a daughter of whose talents he was tremendously proud. The young woman sang. The father sent her to Europe to study voice culture under the best Continental teachers. Upon her return home he arranged that she should give a recital at Carnegie Hall. To the recital all his friends were invited.

In celebration of the event he decided also to give a banquet to a chosen group of some ten or fifteen at the Waldorf. But even in the heights of his parental enthusiasm prudence guided him. He summoned the prospective guests together and to them he said this:

“If Miriam should make a big hit I gif you fellows all vot you can eat und drink—the very best of everything, disregardless of expense. But of course there’s a chance maybe she vont make a hit. She iss young und berhaps she gets scared ven she sees so many beeple all vaiting to lissen at her und, possibly, in that case, she might not go so vell. So, if she should fall down, ve vouldn’t feel like a celebration, und there vould be no dinner, understand?”

At Carnegie Hall the father’s fears were justified. The young woman immediately on her entrance was seized with a terrific attack of stage-fright. She uttered plaintive bleating sounds, then burst into tears and fled into the wings.

Almost before she vanished, her father had seized his hat, had dashed from the box where the family were seated, and, in a taxi-cab was hurrying down town to countermand the order for the spread. He reached the hotel, ascended in the elevator to the floor where he had engaged a private dining-room and ran through the hall to notify the head-waiter that there would be no feast.

But as he neared the door the sounds of brisk knife-and-fork play gave him added speed. He burst open the door and stood transfixed on the threshold. Only the place which had been reserved for him at the head of the table was vacant. At every other place sat one of his friends, stowing away expensive victuals and costly wines at tremendous speed.

“Vait!” shouted the agonized father. “Vait! Didn’t I say only ve should have a dinner if Miriam was a success?”

A spokesman for the others raised his face from the terrapin stew.

“Vell,” he said, “ve liked her!”

And went right on eating.

Sometimes a speaker, casting about for exactly the right word, hits on the wrong word and yet, paradoxically, the wrong word seems exactly to sum up the situation which the orator has sought to describe.

Down at Whitehall, which is in the state of Virginia not many miles from Richmond, a negro farm-hand, whose first name was Levi, met a violent and sudden death. He was ploughing a corn patch when a thunder shower came up. In the midst of the storm, a bolt of lightning struck the tree under which he had taken shelter and scarcely enough of him was left for purposes of burial.

Nevertheless, his family and friends did give him an elaborate funeral. A colored minister, with a reputation for eloquence, was imported at considerable cost to preach the sermon.

The preacher very soon got into his swing while the congregation swayed and moaned and gave vent to muffled hallelujahs and amens. He came to his climax:

“De call fur our pore brother wuz swift an’ suddin. He did not linger fur long months on de bed of pain an’ affliction. He did not suffer an’ waste away. No suh, de Lawd jest teched an electric button in de skies an’ summarized Levi!”

The other day Punch had a picture of an old gentleman about to climb into a taxi to escape a terrific snowstorm.

“Cabby,” he says, “it’s a miserable winter day, isn’t it?”

“Guvinor,” answers the frost-bitten taxi driver, “I pass you my word I’ve been out since early mornin’ and I ain’t seen a single butterfly.”

But, off-hand, I’d say the prize under this heading goes to Fred Greig, the New York art critic, for his telling of a personal experience.

At the age of twelve he was riding on the front seat of a Fleet Street bus. Although the month was July, rain had been coming down, practically without cessation, for more than a week. An East Indian, garbed all in white, went past, slopping along the sidewalk under an umbrella.

The driver aimed his whip at the dark stranger.

“Wot’s that?” he asked.

“That,” said Young Greig, who at school had been studying up on Oriental history and customs, “is a Parsee.”

“And wot’s a Parsee?”

“A sun-worshipper.”

“Well,” said the driver, “ ’e must be ’ere on a blinkin’ vacation.”

A young couple, on their honeymoon, spent two days in a small Southern city. When they got off the train an old negro man, who served as porter, runner, chief bell-boy and general factotum for the hotel greeted them at the depot. He took charge of their hand-baggage and led the way for them to an ancient vehicle.

As he drove them along the street the young husband took him into their confidence:

“Now, look here, Uncle,” he said, “we don’t want anybody here to know that we’ve just been married. Probably some of the other guests will speak to you about us and we count on you to throw them off the track.”

“Boss,” said the old man, “don’t you an’ the young lady worry. Jest trust me. ’Taint nobody goin’ fin’ out by axin’ me questions.”

But when the pair came down from their room that evening for supper, they found themselves a target for the interested stares of everyone else in the dining room. All eyes were turned in their direction. At the conclusion of a somewhat hurried and decidedly embarrassed meal, the young man hunted up the old negro.

“Say,” he demanded, “I thought you promised not to give us away, and yet everybody around this hotel is looking at us and grinning.”

“Boss,” said the old negro fervently, “ef dey’s learned the truff, dey didn’t none of ’em learn it frum me—naw, suh!”

“Well, did anybody speak to you about us after we registered?”

“Yas, suh, sevr’l.”

“Did any of them want to know whether we were on our wedding trip?”

“Yas, suh, they did.”

“Well, what did you say to them?”

“I sez to ’em: ‘Naw, indeedy, them young folks ain’t no bridal couple—they’s jest a couple of chums.’ ”

Out in Australia two Cockneys were sentenced to die for an atrocious murder. As the date for execution drew nearer the nerves of both of them became more and more shaken. Dawn of the fatal morning found them in a state of terrific funk.

As they sat in the condemned cell waiting the summons to march to the gallows one of the pair said:

“Me mind’s all in a whirl. I carn’t seem to remember anything. I carn’t even remember what dye of the week it is.”

“It’s a Monday,” stated his companion in misfortune.

“Ow!” said the first one, “wot a rotten wye to start the week!”

A small negro boy went to a physician in Natchez to be treated for a painful sensation in one of his ears. The doctor examined and found the ear was full of water.

“How did this happen,” he asked after he had drained the ear—“been going in swimming?”

“Naw, suh,” said the little darky—“been eatin’ watermelon!”

A chronic imbiber in a New England city was clinging to a lamp-post one Sunday morning when a stranger came along and addressed him.

“Sir,” inquired the stranger, “can you tell me where the Second Presbyterian Church is?”

“Mister,” answered the weary one, “I don’t even know where the first one is!”

That famous wit, the late Private John Allen of Mississippi, while a member of Congress used to tell a story illustrative of political conditions in his home state.

According to Allen, there was a man in his county who hankered to hold public office. “Every time we had a Democratic primary,” said Allen, “this fellow turned up, seeking the nomination for one job or another. But always he was turned down—he never made the grade.

“Finally, he just naturally abandoned the Democratic party. He said the Democrats didn’t appreciate true worth; that they didn’t know real merit when they saw it. So he turned Republican.

“At the next election he entered himself as a candidate for sheriff on the Republican ticket. Well, sir, that fellow certainly made a spirited campaign. If ever a man worked to bring out the full strength of the white Republican vote he was the man. He canvassed the county from end to end. He spoke at every cross-roads blacksmith shop and every country schoolhouse. He left no stone unturned.

“Well, election day came. He got exactly two votes—and was arrested that night for repeating!”

Probably there are a dozen differing versions of this story but the one I like best of all is the one I heard some twenty-five years ago. Mandy, the cook, left her employer’s kitchen early one afternoon to attend a marriage ceremony in the colored quarter of the town.

The high contracting parties to the union were to be distinguished members of local Afro-American Society, and Mandy, as one of the invited guests, anticipated an enjoyable evening. Nor, as it would appear, was she disappointed. For, when she appeared at 8 o’clock next morning she gave her mistress an enthusiastic account of the affair.

“Miss May,” she declared, “dat suttinly wuz a scrumptious weddin’! I reckin very few w’ite folks an’ no niggers at all in dis town ever did have a weddin’ dat wuz de beat of dish yere one. I only wisht you mout a’ seen de bride yore own se’f. My! My! Dat gal suttinly wuz got up regardless. Her weddin’ gown wuz all hollered out at de top an’ ’twuz trimmed ’round de aidges wid rows of w’ite vermin. An’ her hair wuz done up high on her haid in a pampydo, an’ right in de middle of it wuz stuck one of dese yere w’ite regrets. And de contras’ betwixt dat black pamp and dat w’ite regret—Ump huh!

“Dat wuz only jest de beginnin’. De parlor wuz all trimmed wid smileaxes an’ de ushers dey all wore w’ite gloves an’ swaller-tail coats. An’ they wuz a string band of eight pieces to play de weddin’ march.

“Miss May, you sho’ly also an’ likewise should a’ seen de table whar de bridal feast wuz spread. Dey had chicken croquettes at ever’ plate an’ ice-cream ’twell you couldn’t rest, an’ punch made out of gin an’ a whole soup-syringe full of simon salad.

“De weddin’ feast lasted all night an’ tain’t finished ’till yit. Dem niggers is still over dere dancin’. I jest stole away to cook you up a lil’ breakfust an’ den, befo’ I washes de dishes, I aims to run on back fur to tek a hand in de las’ quodrille.”

“But Mandy,” said her mistress, “you haven’t said anything about the bridegroom?”

“Nome, I lef’ him out a-puppos. He wuz de only drawback dey wuz to dat weddin’.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he drunk?”

“I don’t know ef he wuz or ef he wuzn’t; but Miss May, wid dat gal got up de way she wuz an’ wid all dat music an’ all dem vittles, dat nasty, low-flung, kinky-haided nigger, he never did come.”

As a boy, I had this one from my father. I seem to recall that he said it actually had happened before the Civil War in the remote Southern settlement where my forbears lived for upwards of a hundred years.

Into the community there came a dashing stranger. He had no visible means of support, but such was his ingratiating personality that speedily he became a favorite among the simple pioneers. Shortly after this advent the local Methodist circuit rider organized a protracted meeting.

The last night of the meeting was devoted to foreign missions. The preacher rose to inspired heights of eloquence. In vivid colors he painted the forlorn and ignorant state of the heathen and the crying need of funds with which to spread the Christian doctrine in far-off pagan lands. At the psychological moment, when the assemblage had been worked up into a fit frame of mind for contributing heavily, the preacher called upon the fascinating stranger to pass the hat. It developed later that upon that very day the latter had gone to the minister and volunteered for this service.

He passed the hat. He passed it until it was filled to the brim with the offerings of the multitude. When his round of the pews was completed, instead of marching up to the pulpit and depositing the funds there, the newcomer began to edge toward the door of the church, and, incidentally, toward where his horse was tethered outside. Observing this suspicious maneuver, the preacher was filled with a horrid dread.

“My brother,” he called out, “if you go away from the house of God with that there money you will be damned!”

On the words, the stranger vanished out of the door. The voice of a resident in a back pew broke the horrified hush which followed.

“Well, parson,” he said, “ef he ain’t went, I’ll be damned!”

There was company at the farmhouse that evening and Mrs. Purdy, who had her share and more of New Hampshire thrift, was moved through hospitality to offer the suggestion that possibly the guests might like a glass apiece of fresh apple cider. There was unanimous endorsement of the idea. So Mr. Purdy got a china pitcher from the pantry and started for the cellar where the cider was stored.

The cellar was dark and the steps leading to it were steep. Half way down he stumbled and dropped with a resounding thump upon the brick floor six feet below, where he lay half-stunned.

Upstairs in the parlor they heard the sound of his fall. With alarm and wifely solicitude writ large upon her face Mrs. Purdy ran to the head of the cellar steps.

“Paw,” she called down, “did you break the pitcher?”

From the void below a determined voice answered her back:

“No, I didn’t, but by Judas Priest, I’m goin’ to now!”

A few years ago Colonel Hal Corbett, one of my oldest friends, came up from the South to stay a week with me in New York. Three of us, all old cronies of his but all living in the North, met him at the train.

At his suggestion we dropped into the café of the Imperial Hotel on Broadway. Hotels had cafés in those days, and Corbett was thirsty, he said. We lined up at the bar, facing a genial gentleman in a white jacket and a white apron.

Now it so happened that at the moment all three of us, for one reason or another, were riding on the well-known water wagon—a circumstance of which Corbett was not aware and probably one which he had never dreamed could be possible.

He turned to me:

“What’s it going to be?” he asked genially.

I said:

“A glass of buttermilk.”

He gave a start of surprise. But, like a true Kentucky gentleman, he did not voice his emotions. He turned to the second member of the group.

“And what do you take?” he inquired hopefully.

“Oh,” said Number 2, “I don’t want anything except a plain lemonade.”

Corbett’s eyes widened as he waved his arm toward the third man.

“And yours?” he inquired.

“Mine is a ginger ale,” was the answer.

Corbett faced front:

“Mr. Barkeeper,” he said, “I’m going to be in the fashion while I’m here if it kills me. Give me a quart of blueing.”

There used to be a ticket seller with the old Yankee Robertson circus who owned a big green parrot. The parrot’s perch swung from the roof of the ticket wagon and there the bird would sit just above her owner’s head.

The ticket man had a line of patter which he constantly chanted as the patrons surged in front of his wicket twice on each week day of the season—before the afternoon performance and again before the evening performance.

“Don’t shove, friends!” he would say. “Don’t crowd! Take your time. Give everybody a chance!”

The parrot memorized this speech. She even learned to mimic her master’s exact tone. Repeating his admonition was a favorite part of her repertoire.

One afternoon when business was over he went away, forgetting to close the slide on his window. When he returned a little later his pet was gone. Immediately he organized a search party to look for the truant bird.

Half a mile distant from the show lot, in a field, he found Poll. She was reared back on the ground, practically featherless. About her circled and swirled a great flock of crows, cawing joyously. Every instant nearly, one of the crows, twisting out of the circle, would dart down and pluck a souvenir of green plumage from the disheveled alien.

And each time this happened Poor Poll, in a beautiful imitation of her owner’s voice and accent would shriek out:

“Don’t shove, friends! Don’t crowd! Take your time! Give everybody a chance!”

When the New York Central inaugurated its fast service between New York and Chicago there was a great pother along the main line. Employees of whatsoever rank were instructed that the paramount consideration was to get the Twentieth Century Limited through on schedule. If the slightest mishap occurred to the train all hands were charged to forward prompt reports to headquarters, giving the complete details.

At a small flag-stop west of Albany, the station-agent was a callow youth. By enthusiasm and a sense of his responsibilities he made up, though, for what he lacked in experience. In addition to being the ticket-seller he also was the despatcher.

One wintry evening just at dusk he caught, passing over the wire, word that the Twentieth Century Limited was two hours behind time. What had retarded her he did not learn, but he knew wherein his duty lay.

He lit his lantern, sharpened a pencil, and got out a notebook, then sat him down to bide his time. Ten minutes before the belated Limited was due to whiz past he left the station, walked eastward along the tracks a quarter of a mile and posted himself between the rails.

Soon the headlight hove into sight. In an effort to make up the precious lost minutes the engineer was driving his locomotive at tremendous speed. Suddenly far ahead he saw the dancing signal of a lantern. He gave her the brakes; he gave her the sand. Passengers in the coaches behind were slammed up against the end bulkheads of their berths. With sparks flying from her wheels, the snorting mogul stopped not fifty feet distant from where the youth stood. The engineer and his fireman dropped down from the cab and ran forward, sputtering questions.

The station-agent stilled them with an authoritative gesture. He put down his lantern on the right-of-way, braced his pad in the crook of his elbow, poised his pencil ready to record their answers and said briskly:

“Now then, boys, tell me—what detained you?”

Of course, in these days, when no community is so small or so obscure or so old-fashioned that it lacks service stations and jazz orchestras and schemes for a proposed Civic Center, this story no longer could be made to apply in any American town.

As the tale runs, a man who had been born and reared in a remote Nebraska country-seat moved to New York where he succeeded in business. Years later a friend from his former home came to see him. Naturally, talk drifted back to childhood scenes and memories.

“I guess the old town hasn’t changed much, has it, Jim?” asked the New Yorker.

“Not much,” said Jim. “She’s pretty much the same.”

“I presume they still blow the curfew whistle at nine o’clock every night just as they started to do shortly before I moved East?”

“Naw, they had to quit that after a few months. It woke everybody up!”

In a small New England town, there used to be an Irishman of convivial habits. He convived in season and out of it. In fact, he was in a fair way to qualify as the village drunkard.

Late one night—perhaps I should say early one morning—half a dozen natives were on their homeward way after a social evening at the groggery. At the foot of the main street they stumbled upon the recumbent form of the inebriate, whose name was McGuire. Now, they were what used to be known in the old pre-Volstead days as “pickled.” But he was absolutely petrified. At sight of their friend peacefully asleep, thwartwise of the sidewalk, one of the party had an inspiration.

“Here,” he said, “is a beautiful chance to cure old McGuire of boozing. Let’s carry him out to the cemetery and stick him in an open grave, if we can find one. Then we’ll hang around and wait until he comes to. He’ll think he’s been buried alive, and the shock will be a lesson to him.”

The suggestion met instantaneous approval. The slumberer was picked up by his arms and legs and borne to the burying-ground. Circumstances and chance favored the conspirators. In an ancient vault from which the roof was missing they found an abandoned coffin. Into the empty box they snuggled their victim and, placing the crumbling lid over him for a coverlet, they hid themselves behind adjacent tombstones to await the climax of their plot.

The wait was a long one, but all of them stayed on, allured by the prospect that patience eventually would be rewarded. At length dawn showed in the east. Daylight broke; the sun came up and presently it was six o’clock. Prompt on the hour the whistle of a near-by shoe-factory cut into the morning calm with a shrill siren whoop.

At this blast Mr. McGuire stirred. He threw up his arms, displacing the lid, sat up in his narrow form-fitting casket, and blinked in the rosy light. Then, as he comprehended where he was, a triumphant smile split his face.

“By cripes!” he said exultantly, “ ’tis the Resurrection Day and I’m the first son-of-a-gun up!”

Two gentlemen connected with the cloakings and suitings trade went to the Catskills on their vacations. Shortly after their arrival they took a tramp among the hills.

“I wish,” said one, “that I owned that tallest mountain yonder and that it was all solid gold.”

“That’s a lovely thought,” said the other approvingly. “Say, Ike, if that mountain was solid gold and you owned it all by yourself would you give me some of it, huh?”

“Certainly I wouldn’t!” said Ike. “Wish yourself a mountain.”

In a small city which we will not name, there lived a maiden lady who, for convenience, shall here be called Miss Henrietta Blank. She was of an old family and she was prominent in club life. In fact, so constantly was she engaged by her communal activities that, according to local rumor, she rarely found time for applying soap and water to her neck and ears.

On a certain occasion a patriotic organization, of which she was a member, was holding a session. Miss Blank was not present. The presiding officer, a lady civically celebrated for her ready wit, was delegated to choose the members of a special committee.

After deliberation she made this announcement:

“For the members of this committee I shall name Mrs. Major Jones, Mrs. Dr. Robinson and Miss Henrietta Blank.”

“Oh, Madam Chairman,” put in a member, “I’m sure I do not wish to be unkind, but this is really a very important matter where decision is needed and prompt action. Don’t you think you should substitute someone else for dear Miss Henrietta—she’s so wishy-washy!”

The presiding officer’s retort was instantaneously delivered:

“The person in question may be wishy,” she said, “but the Lord in Heaven knows she is not washy!”

A Chicago man visiting in London was invited to a ball where everybody except himself talked with an exceedingly broad a, as people will do in England—and Boston, Mass. The accent was puzzling to his Chicago ears but he did his best.

He danced with the wife of his host. The lady spoke with an especially broad accent; also she ran somewhat to flesh. When they had finished the round of the floor she was panting in a repressed and well-bred way.

“Shall we try another whirl?” inquired the Chicago man.

“Not now,” she said; “I’m darnced out.”

“Oh, no,” said the Chicago man, “not darn stout—just nice and plump, ma’am.”

Out West a dump car broke its couplings and went on a wild trip down grade. At a switch it was derailed, turning over on its side and instantly crushing to death a Mexican laborer.

It fell to the lot of the foreman of the gang to which the victim belonged to render a report of the tragedy. This foreman, whose name I believe was Cassidy,—at any rate, it was a good Hibernian name,—got along fairly well with his literary labors until he came to the final space in the printed form, opposite the question: Remarks? Mr. Cassidy studied awhile and then inserted these words:

“He never made none!”

The companion-piece to this has for a setting a stretch of a Southern line whereon a freight train had killed a cow, the property of a farmer. Mr. Dugan, the resident section boss, interviewed the owner of the slain animal and then proceeded to fill out a blank for the subsequent use of the claim agent.

Painstakingly Mr. Dugan entered references relating to the circumstances under which the fatality occurred, also the age, color and presumed value of the lately deceased cow and other particulars, as gleaned from eye-witnesses and from the bereft farmer. But he was stumped when he came to the words: “State disposition of the remains?”

He was stumped, but not for long; he set down this:

“She was kind and gentle!”

Back in 1890 George Clark, of Waco, and James S. Hogg, of Tyler, were candidates for the Democratic gubernatorial nomination in Texas. At the convention, Hogg won.

Clark, the defeated aspirant, was not satisfied with the methods used to bring about his opponent’s nomination. He and some of his followers bolted the convention and he ran as an independent candidate. In this emergency, both he and Hogg sought the endorsement of the Republican organization.

In 1890 the Republican party in Texas was even more of a minority party than it is to-day. Its leaders mainly were white men, but the rank and file overwhelmingly was black; so that when the Republican state convention met at Fort Worth the delegates nearly all were negroes.

The Clark people controlled the preliminary organization. The temporary chairman called upon the Reverend Sin Killer Griffin to open the proceedings with prayer. Sin Killer was a famous revivalist hailing from near the border between Texas and Arkansas. He was fat and black and had a mighty voice. In thunderous tones he invoked the blessings of the Almighty upon the assemblage. And just before he concluded, he roared out these words:

“An’ finally, Oh Lawd, bless thy sarvant, George Clark, an’ mek ’im gov’ner of de great state of Texas.” Instantly a roar of mingled protest and approbation arose. The tumult continued for several minutes. Finally down in the body of the hall a bullvoiced black politician obtained recognition from the presiding officer.

“Mista’ Cheerman!” he shouted, “I teks de floor to mek a motion: I moves dat de name of George Clark be oxpunged from dat air prayer an’ dat de name of de Honor’ble Jeemses Stephens Hogg be substituted therefur.”

The Sin Killer was still upon his feet.

“Mista’ Cheerman,” he proclaimed, “I speaks to a p’int of order.”

“State the point of order.”

“De genelman’s motion is pintedly out of awder fur de reason dat de prayer in question done went to Heaven more’n five minutes ago!”

This offering has to do with a leading financier of a Middle Western city—a gentleman renowned for his personal vanity as well as for his cold-blooded sagacity in financial matters. The gentleman in question had a glass eye; but, so well did it match its fellow, that it was a point of pride with the owner that no one, lacking full information on the subject, could tell at a glance the artificial from the real one. His name was Oliver. One day, a citizen of the community, who was a chronic borrower, emerged from Mr. Oliver’s bank after an unsuccessful effort to negotiate a loan, and on the sidewalk met a friend.

“Say,” he said, “you know a lot of people in this town have never been able to tell which one of old Oliver’s eyes was his glass eye. Well, I know. I found out awhile ago when I was in there trying to get him to let me make a ninety-day note. All the time we were talking I was watching him and I finally caught onto the secret. It’s the left one.”

“How do you know it’s the left one?” asked his friend.

“Because it was the one that seemed to have a kindly human gleam in it.”

A hand-picked group of American bankers went to France to study financial and economic conditions with a view to pooling a large loan on some Continental industrial properties. Naturally, the prospective borrowers exerted themselves to win the favor of the distinguished visitors.

The hosts labored under the impression, seemingly, that, because America has in force a Prohibition law, their guests must be exceedingly thirsty. Accordingly, in whatsoever part of the republic the party stopped, the pick of the vintages of that particular district was served. There was wine for breakfast, wine for luncheon, wine for dinner, wine for late supper and unlimited wines between meals.

Now, one of the group from the States was a native son of the far West. Through his life he had been an imbiber but an exceedingly moderate one. Howsomever, if his gorge rose and his palate grew jaded because of the irrigating facilities constantly provided by his hospitable French friends, he gave no sign, for he was a polite man.

At length the expedition arrived in Paris, after a tour of what seemed to the Westerner all the vineyards in France. On the day of his arrival he met an old acquaintance now residing abroad.

“Say,” declared his friend, “this reunion calls for a celebration. You’ve got to dine with me to-night at the Golden Snail. I’ll order some food there that’ll make your eyes bug out.

“As a further inducement, I might add that the Golden Snail restaurant has as good a cellar as there is in this town. You can have whatever you want to drink and as much of it as you can hold. Now, there’s a Burgundy——”

“Hold on!” said the Californian. “Do you mean that? Can I really have what I crave most in this world? It may be hard to find in this town—I warn you of that.”

“You name the brand and I’ll engage to find it.”

“All right, then. You look up a good reliable local bootlegger and see if you can get me about two quarts of drinking water.”