Sandusky, I sauntered into an apothecary shop, intending to purchase some mild drug, to the use of which I am addicted, and which usually comes to us from Havana.

As I stood a moment after getting my light, an old country-man came shuffling in.

He was a character, I'm telling you; why, it stuck out all over his furrowed face just like the tracks of a lost hen in the mud.

I saw him pull out a red bandanna handkerchief and frown as he surveyed the big knot in the end.

You needn't smile—that old codger wasn't the first man to forget why he had tied a knot in his handkerchief or a string around his finger.

"Well, uncle, what is it?" asked the clerk.

"I'll get around to it pretty quick. Now, what place is it down yonder on the lake?"

"Do you mean Put-in-Bay?"

"Yep, that's it. Now, who was it that put in there?"

"Perhaps you mean Commodore Perry?"

"The very man. And I want a bottle o' Perrygoric."

I saw at once that man knew what he was after, and was bound to get it.

Sandusky seems to breed that species.

Why, when I was at the station, waiting with a big crowd for a train that was late, a wide-awake chap pointed out to me a poorly dressed woman who sat alone and apparently disconsolate.

"Look here," called out this fellow, raising his voice and getting a crowd about him, arousing immediate attention, "this poor woman has no ticket to her destination. I'll chip in ten cents for her. Who'll help?"

Presently he had a hat partly filled with coin, which he dumped in her lap.

Then he called out again: "She has more than her fare, but not enough for a shawl. She needs a shawl; I'll chip in a quarter for that."

Again he made the round and again announced:

"She ought to have a bonnet. I'll chip in half a dollar for the bonnet."

When he made the rounds the third time, a newcomer entered the station, shook hands heartily with the woman, and turning to the philanthropist, said:

"Why, Hiram, I'm glad to see you and your wife again."

"How's this?" asked one of the contributors while the rest of us gaped. "Is this woman your wife?"

"Yes," drawled the philanthropist, grinning.

"What right have you to collect money for your wife?" demanded several.

"What right have I to collect money for any other fellow's wife?" was the retort that closed the debate.

I've never ceased to believe that fellow was the nerviest bunco man I ever met.

I traveled down to Coney Island the other day with a friend recently married.

They went to housekeeping, and I suspect the little woman has been bombarding him with all manner of fearful dishes which she insists upon trying.

That's so like my Clara—- oh, so like! Did I ever tell you about Clara? Well, I'll sing about her instead. Listen: