quite right in shooting these birds to-day; to-morrow it would have been too late.”

Uncle Toby was aghast at finding a strange darky with his arm around Mandy’s waist.

“Mandy, tell dat niggah to take his ahm ’way from round yo’ waist,” he indignantly commanded. “Tell him yo’self,” said Mandy haughtily. “He’s a puffect stranger to me.”

A Cockney tourist was on a visit to a Highland town famous for its golf-links. Through wearing a pair of stiff leather gaiters several sizes too large for him, he was compelled to walk bow-legged. Being a very slow player, others were forced to wait for him at every hole. At the fourth hole a Highlander after watching the visitor miss the ball three times was unable to wait any longer, and drove his ball clean between the tourist’s legs. “What!” he of the gaitered legs yelled furiously. “Do you call that golf?” “Mebbe no,” replied the Gael, “but it’s very good croquet.”

After the sermon on Sunday morning the rector welcomed and shook hands with a young German.

“And are you a regular communicant?” said the rector.

“Yes,” said the German, “I take the 7.45 every morning.”

Meeting a negro, a certain Southern gentleman asked him how he was getting on.

The negro assumed a troubled look, and replied:

“Oh, so far’s physicality goes, I’m all right; but I sure do have ma troubles wif ma wife.”

“Well, Sam, I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the matter?”

“She thinks money grows on trees, I reckon. All de time she keeps pesterin’ me foh pinch o’ change. If it ain’t a dollah it’s half or a quarter she wants.”

“What on earth does she do with the money?”

“I dunno. Ain’t nevah give her none yet.”

A mountaineer of one of the back counties of North Carolina was arraigned with several others for illicit distilling. “Defendant,” said the court, “what is your name?”

“Joshua,” was the reply.

“Are you the man who made the sun stand still?”

Quick as a flash came the answer, “No, sir; I am the man who made the moonshine.”

“They thought more of the Legion of Honor in the time of the first Napoleon than they do now,” said a well-known Frenchman. “The emperor one day met an old one-armed veteran.

“‘How did you lose your arm?’ he asked.

“‘Sire, at Austerlitz.’

“‘And were you not decorated?’

“‘No, sire.’

“‘Then here is my own cross for you; I make you chevalier.’

“‘Your Majesty names me chevalier because I have lost one arm! What would your Majesty have done had I lost both arms?’

“‘Oh, in that case I should have made you Officer of the Legion.’

“Whereupon the old soldier immediately drew his sword and cut off his other arm.”

There is no particular reason to doubt this story. The only question is, how did he do it?

A stranger in Boston was interested to discover, when dining with friends once, that the dessert he would have classed as cream layer cake at home was known in Boston as “Washington pie.” And the next time he lunched at a restaurant, he ordered the same thing; but the waiter put before him a rather heavy looking square of cake covered with chocolate, instead of the cream cake the guest had made up his mind to enjoy. A puzzled expression came over his face as he said reprovingly, “I ordered Washington pie, waiter.”

“That is Washington pie, sir.”

“Well,” expostulated the disappointed man, “I did not mean Booker T.—I want George!”

George Ade, automobiling in Indiana, dined at a country hotel among a roomful of ministers.

The ministers, who were holding a convention in the town, were much amused when Mr. Ade’s identity was disclosed to them.

One of them said during dinner:

“How does a humorist of your stamp feel, sir, in such reverend company as this?”

“I feel,” said Mr. Ade promptly, “like a lion in a den of Daniels.”

It was a crowded tram car. Among those who could not find seats was a young lady. Close to where she stood an old man was sitting. He struggled as if to rise. The young woman cast a glance of scorn at one or two men hiding behind newspapers. “Please don’t get up,” she said to the old man, “I beg you won’t.” The conductor rang the bell and the car went on. The old man’s features worked convulsively and he mopped his face with his handkerchief. At the next stopping place he again tried to rise and again the young woman tried to stop him. “I would much rather stand,” she said, continuing to block his way. “I don’t care whether you would or not,” said the old man, crimson with fury, “I want to get out. You’ve made me come half a mile too far already. Here, you, stop the car.” But it was too late, the bell had already rung and he had to wait until the next stopping place was reached.

“I want some cigars for my husband for Christmas.”

“What kind, madam?”

“Well, I don’t know, exactly; but he is a middle-aged man and always dresses in black.”

John D. Rockefeller, Jr., tells a story of his father:

“Father tells many stories. Sometimes he tells a new one. Not long ago he related one to me that concerned a man who had imbibed rather too freely. The man, in this condition, fell into a watering trough. To the officer who came to help him out as he wallowed in the water, he said:

“‘Offzer, I ken save self. You save women an’ shildern.’”

“On Sunday, September 20, the wife of —— of a daughter. Others please copy.”

Bret Harte was so frequently complimented as the author of “Little Breeches” that he was almost as sorry it was ever written as was Colonel John Hay, who preferred his fame to rest on more ambitious works. A gushing lady who prided herself upon her literary tastes, said to him once: “My dear Mr. Harte, I am so delighted to meet you. I have read everything you ever wrote, but of all your dialect verse there is none that compares to your ‘Little Breeches.’”

“I quite agree with you, madam,” said Mr. Harte, “but you have put the little breeches on the wrong man.”

Mr. Knox, the Secretary of State in Taft’s Cabinet, was formerly engaged in the practise of law in Pittsburg.

One day, says a friend, Mr. Knox was much put out to find on his arrival at his office that everything was topsy-turvy and that the temperature of his rooms was much too low for comfort. Summoning his office-boy, a lad but recently entered his employ, the lawyer asked who had raised every window in the place on such a cold morning.

“Mr. Muldoon, sir,” was the answer.

“Who is Mr. Muldoon?” asked the attorney.

“The janitor, sir.”

“Who carried off my waste-basket?” was the next question.

“Mr. Reilly, sir.”

“And who is Mr. Reilly?”

“He’s the man that cleans the rooms.”

Mr. Knox looked sternly at the boy and said: “See here, Richard, we call men by their first names here. We don’t ‘mister’ them in this office. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” And the boy retired.

In a few minutes he reappeared and in a shrill, piping voice announced: