There was a young man of Dunbar,Who playfully poisoned his Ma;When he'd finished his work,He remarked with a smirk,"This will cause quite a family jar."
There was a young man of Dunbar,Who playfully poisoned his Ma;When he'd finished his work,He remarked with a smirk,"This will cause quite a family jar."
There was a young man of Dunbar,
Who playfully poisoned his Ma;
When he'd finished his work,
He remarked with a smirk,
"This will cause quite a family jar."
See alsoFamilies; Marriage.
The average modern play calls in the first act for all our faith, in the second for all our hope, and in the last for all our charity.—Eugene Walter.
The young man in the third row of seats looked bored. He wasn't having a good time. He cared nothing for the Shakespearean drama.
"What's the greatest play you ever saw?" the young woman asked, observing his abstraction.
Instantly he brightened.
"Tinker touching a man out between second and third and getting the ball over to Chance in time to nab the runner to first!" he said.
LARRY—"I like Professor Whatishisname in Shakespeare. He brings things home to you that you never saw before."
HARRY—"Huh! I've got a laundryman as good as that."
I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my own just above the others.... To me it seems as if when God conceived the world, that was Poetry; He formed it, and that was Sculpture; He colored it, and that was Painting; He peopled it with living beings, and that was the grand, divine, eternal Drama.—Charlotte Cushman.
Two women were leaving the theater after a performance of "The Doll's House."
"Oh, don't youloveIbsen?" asked one, ecstatically. "Doesn't he just take all the hope out of life?"
Theodore Dreiser, the novelist, was talking about criticism.
"I like pointed criticism," he said, "criticism such as I heard in the lobby of a theater the other night at the end of the play."
"The critic was an old gentleman. His criticism, which was for his wife's ears alone, consisted of these words:
"'Well, you would come!'"
Nat Goodwin, the American comedian, when at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London, told of an experience he once had with a juvenile deadhead in a town in America. Standing outside the theater a little time before the performance was due to begin he observed a small boy with an anxious, forlorn look on his face and a weedy-looking pup in his arms.
Goodwin inquired what was the matter, and was told that the boy wished to sell the dog so as to raise the price of a seat in the gallery. The actor suspected at once a dodge to secure a pass on the "sympathy racket," but allowing himself to be taken in he gave the boy a pass. The dog was deposited in a safe place and the boy was able to watch Goodwin as the Gilded Fool from a good seat in the gallery. Next day Goodwin saw the boy again near the theater, so he asked:
"Well, sonny, how did you like the show?"
"I'm glad I didn't sell my dog," was the reply.
"I hear Scribbler finally got one of his plays on the boards."
"Yes, the property man tore up his manuscript and used it in the snow storm scene."
"So you think the author of this play will live, do you?" remarked the tourist.
"Yes," replied the manager of the Frozen Dog Opera House. "He's got a five-mile start and I don't think the boys kin ketch him."—Life.
We all know the troubles of a dramatist are many and varied.
Here's an advertisement taken from a morning paper that shows to what a pass a genius may come in a great city:
"Wanted—A collaborator, by a young playwright. The play is already written; collaborator to furnish board and bed until play is produced."
WIFE—"Wretch! Show me that letter."
HUSBAND—"What letter?"
WIFE—"That one in your hand. It's from a woman, I can see by the writing, and you turned pale when you saw it."
HUSBAND—"Yes. Here it is. It's your dressmaker's bill."
He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;But he who goes to bed, and does so mellow,Lives as he ought to, and dies a good fellow.—Parody on Fletcher.
He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;But he who goes to bed, and does so mellow,Lives as he ought to, and dies a good fellow.
He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,
Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;
But he who goes to bed, and does so mellow,
Lives as he ought to, and dies a good fellow.
—Parody on Fletcher.
—Parody on Fletcher.
I drink when I have occasion, and sometimes when I have no occasion.—Cervantes.
I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.—Shakespeare.
The Frenchman loves his native wine;The German loves his beer;The Englishman loves his 'alf and 'alf,Because it brings good cheer;The Irishman loves his "whiskey straight,"Because it gives him dizziness;The American has no choice at all,So he drinks the whole blamed business.
The Frenchman loves his native wine;The German loves his beer;The Englishman loves his 'alf and 'alf,Because it brings good cheer;The Irishman loves his "whiskey straight,"Because it gives him dizziness;The American has no choice at all,So he drinks the whole blamed business.
The Frenchman loves his native wine;
The German loves his beer;
The Englishman loves his 'alf and 'alf,
Because it brings good cheer;
The Irishman loves his "whiskey straight,"
Because it gives him dizziness;
The American has no choice at all,
So he drinks the whole blamed business.
A young Englishman came to Washington and devoted his days and nights to an earnest endeavor to drink all the Scotch whiskey there was. He couldn't do it, and presently went to a doctor, complaining of a disordered stomach.
"Quit drinking!" ordered the doctor.
"But, my dear sir, I cawn't. I get so thirsty."
"Well," said the doctor, "whenever you are thirsty eat an apple instead of taking a drink."
The Englishman paid his fee and left. He met a friend to whom he told his experience.
"Bally rot!" he protested. "Fawncy eating forty apples a day!"
If you are invited to drink at any man's house more than you think is wholesome, you may say "you wish you could, but so little makes you both drunk and sick; that you should only be bad company by doing so."—Lord Chesterfield.
There is many a cup 'twixt the lip and the slip.—Judge.
One swallow doesn't make a summer, but it breaks a New Year's resolution.—Life.
DOCTOR (feeling Sandy's pulse in bed)—"What do you drink."
SANDY (with brightening face)—"Oh, I'm nae particular, doctor! Anything you've got with ye."
Here's to the girls of the American shore, I love but one, I love no more, Since she's not here to drink her part, I'll drink her share with all my heart.
A well-known Scottish architect was traveling in Palestine recently, when news reached him of an addition to his family circle. The happy father immediately provided himself with some water from the Jordan to carry home for the christening of the infant, and returned to Scotland.
On the Sunday appointed for the ceremony he duly presented himself at the church, and sought out the beadle in order to hand over the precious water to his care. He pulled the flask from his pocket, but the beadle held up a warning hand, and came nearer to whisper:
"No the noo, sir; no the noo! Maybe after the kirk's oot!"
When President Eliot of Harvard was in active service as head of the university, reports came to him that one of his young charges was in the habit of absorbing more liquor than was good for him, and President Eliot determined to do his duty and look into the matter.
Meeting the young man under suspicion in the yard shortly after breakfast one day the president marched up to him and demanded, "Young man, do you drink?"
"Why, why, why," stammered the young man, "why, President Eliot, not so early in the morning, thank you."
WIFE (on auto tour)—"That fellow back there said there is a road-house a few miles down the road. Shall we stop there?"
HUSBAND—"Did he whisper it or say it out loud?"
A priest went to a barber shop conducted by one of his Irish parishioners to get a shave. He observed the barber was suffering from a recent celebration, but decided to take a chance. In a few moments the barber's razor had nicked the father's cheek. "There, Pat, you have cut me," said the priest as he raised his hand and caressed the wound. "Yis, y'r riv'rance," answered the barber. "That shows you," continued the priest, in a tone of censure, "what the use of liquor will do." "Yis, y'r riv'rance," replied the barber, humbly, "it makes the skin tender."
Ex-congressman Asher G. Caruth, of Kentucky, tells this story of an experience he once had on a visit to a little Ohio town.
"I went up there on legal business," he says, "and, knowing that I should have to stay all night, I proceeded directly to the only hotel. The landlord stood behind the desk and regarded me with a kindly air as I registered. It seems that he was a little hard of hearing, a fact of which I was not aware. As I jabbed the pen back into the dish of bird shot, I said:
"'Can you direct me to the bank?'
"He looked at me blankly for a second, then swinging the register around, he glanced down swiftly, caught the 'Louisville' after my name, and an expression of complete understanding lighting up his countenance, he said:
"'Certainly, sir. You will find the bar right through that door at the left.'"
See alsoDrunkards; Good fellowship; Temperance; Wine.
Governor Glasscock of West Virginia, while traveling through Arizona, noticed the dry, dusty appearance of the country.
"Doesn't it ever rain around here?" he asked one of the natives.
"Rain?" The native spat. "Rain? Why say pardner, there's bullfrogs in this yere town over five years old that hain't learned to swim yet!"
Sing a song of sick gents,Pockets full of rye,Four and twenty highballs,We wish that we might die.
Sing a song of sick gents,Pockets full of rye,Four and twenty highballs,We wish that we might die.
Sing a song of sick gents,
Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die.
Two booze-fiends were ambling homeward at an early hour, after being out nearly all night.
"Don't your wife miss you on these occasions?" asked one.
"Not often," replied the other; "she throws pretty straight."
"Where's old Four-Fingered Pete?" asked Alkali Ike. "I ain't seen him around here since I got back."
"Pete?" said the bartender. "Oh, he went up to Hyena Tongue and got jagged. Went up to a hotel winder, stuck his head in and hollered 'Fire!' and everybody did."
The Irish talent for repartee has an amusing illustration in Lord Rossmore's recent book "Things I Can Tell." While acting as magistrate at an Irish village, Lord Rossmore said to an old offender brought before him: "You here again?" "Yes, your honor." "What's brought you here?" "Two policemen, your honor." "Come, come, I know that—drunk again, I suppose?" "Yes, your honor, both of them."
The colonel came down to breakfast New Year's morning with a bandaged hand.
"Why, colonel, what's the matter?" they asked.
"Confound it all!" the colonel answered, "we had a little party last night, and one of the younger men got intoxicated and stepped on my hand."
MAGISTRATE—"And what was the prisoner doing?"
CONSTABLE—"E were 'avin' a very 'eated argument with a cab driver, yer worship."
MAGISTRATE—"But that doesn't prove he was drunk."
CONSTABLE—"Ah, but there worn't no cab driver there, yer worship."
A Scotch minister and his servant, who were coming home from a wedding, began to consider the state into which their potations at the wedding feast had left them.
"Sandy," said the minister, "just stop a minute here till I go ahead. Maybe I don't walk very steady and the good wife might remark something not just right."
He walked ahead of the servant for a short distance and then asked:
"How is it? Am I walking straight?"
"Oh, ay," answered Sandy thickly, "ye're a' recht—but who's that who's with ye."
A man in a very deep state of intoxication was shouting and kicking most vigorously at a lamp post, when the noise attracted a near-by policeman.
"What's the matter?" he asked the energetic one.
"Oh, never mind, mishter. Thash all right," was the reply; "I know she'sh home all right—I shee a light upshtairs."
A pompous little man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a thoughtful brow boarded a New York elevated train and took the only unoccupied seat. The man next him had evidently been drinking. For a while the little man contented himself with merely sniffing contemptuously at his neighbor, but finally he summoned the guard.
"Conductor," he demanded indignantly, "do you permit drunken people to ride upon this train?"
"No, sir," replied the guard in a confidential whisper. "But don't say a word and stay where you are, sir. If ye hadn't told me I'd never have noticed ye."
A noisy bunch tacked out of their club late one night, and up the street. They stopped in front of an imposing residence. After considerable discussion one of them advanced and pounded on the door. A woman stuck her head out of a second-story window and demanded, none too sweetly: "What do you want?"
"Ish thish the residence of Mr. Smith?" inquired the man on the steps, with an elaborate bow.
"It is. What do you want?"
"Ish it possible I have the honor of speakin' to Misshus Smith?"
"Yes. What do you want?"
"Dear Misshus Smith! Good Misshus Smith! Will you—hic—come down an' pick out Mr. Smith? The resh of us want to go home."
That clever and brilliant genius, McDougall, who represented California in the United States Senate, was like many others of his class somewhat addicted to fiery stimulants, and unable to battle long with them without showing the effect of the struggle. Even in his most exhausted condition he was, however, brilliant at repartee; but one night, at a supper of journalists given to the late George D. Prentice, a genius of the same mold and the same unfortunate habit, he found a foeman worthy of his steel in General John Cochrane. McDougall had taken offense at some anti-slavery sentiments which had been uttered—it was in war times—and late in the evening got on his legs for the tenth time to make a reply. The spirit did not move him to utterance, however; on the contrary, it quite deprived him of the power of speech; and after an ineffectual attempt at speech he suddenly concluded:
"Those are my sentiments, sir, and my name's McDougall."
"I beg the gentleman's pardon," said General Cochrane, springing to his feet; "but what was that last remark?"
McDougall pronounced it again; "my name's McDougall."
"There must be some error," said Cochrane, gravely. "I have known Mr. McDougall many years, and there never was a time when as late as twelve o'clock at night he knew what his name was."
On a pleasant Sunday afternoon an old German and his youngest son were seated in the village inn. The father had partaken liberally of the home-brewed beer, and was warning his son against the evils of intemperance. "Never drink too much, my son. A gentleman stops when he has enough. To be drunk is a disgrace."
"Yes, Father, but how can I tell when I have enough or am drunk?"
The old man pointed with his finger. "Do you see those two men sitting in the corner? If you see four men there, you would be drunk."
The boy looked long and earnestly. "Yes, Father, but—but—there is only one man in that corner."—W. Karl Hilbrich.
William R. Hearst, who never touches liquor, had several men in important positions on his newspapers who were not strangers to intoxicants. Mr. Hearst has a habit of appearing at his office at unexpected times and summoning his chiefs of departments for instructions. One afternoon he sent for Mr. Blank.
"He hasn't come down yet, sir," reported the office boy.
"Please tell Mr. Dash I want to see him."
"He hasn't come down yet either."
"Well, find Mr. Star or Mr. Sun or Mr. Moon—anybody; I want to see one of them at once."
"Ain't none of 'em here yet, sir. You see there was a celebration last night and—"
Mr. Hearst sank back in his chair and remarked in his quiet way:
"For a man who don't drink I think I suffer more from the effects of it than anybody in the world."
"What is a drunken man like, Fool?"
"Like a drowned man, a fool and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him."—Shakespeare.
"Ah," she sighed "for many years I've suffered from dyspepsia."
"And don't you take anything for it?" her friend asked. "You look healthy enough."
"Oh," she replied, "I haven't indigestion: my husband has."
An American and a Scotsman were walking one day near the foot of one of the Scotch mountains. The Scotsman, wishing to impress the visitor, produced a famous echo to be heard in that place. When the echo returned clearly after nearly four minutes, the proud Scotsman, turning to the Yankee exclaimed:
"There, mon, ye canna show anything like that in your country."
"Oh, I don't know," said the American, "I guess we can better that. Why in my camp in the Rockies, when I go to bed I just lean out of my window and call out, 'Time to get up: wake up!' and eight hours afterward the echo comes back and wakes me."
An economist is usually a man who can save money by cutting down some other person's expenses.
Economy is going without something you do want in case you should, some day, want something which you probably won't want.—Anthony Hope.
Economy is a way of spending money without getting any fun out of it.
Ther's lots o' difference between thrift an' tryin' t' revive a last year's straw hat.—Abe Martin.
Economy is a great revenue.—Cicero.
See alsoDomestic finance; Saving; Thrift.
Recipe for an editor:
Take a personal hatred of authors,Mix this with a fiendish delightIn refusing all efforts of geniusAnd maiming all poets on sight.—Life.
Take a personal hatred of authors,Mix this with a fiendish delightIn refusing all efforts of geniusAnd maiming all poets on sight.
Take a personal hatred of authors,
Mix this with a fiendish delight
In refusing all efforts of genius
And maiming all poets on sight.
—Life.
—Life.
The city editor of a great New York daily was known in the newspaper world as a martinet and severe disciplinarian. Some of his caustic and biting criticisms are classics. Once, however, the tables were turned upon him in a way that left him speechless for days.
A reporter on the paper wrote an article that the city editor did not approve of. The morning of publication this reporter drifted into the office and encountered his chief, who was in a white heat of anger. Carefully suppressing the explosion, however, the boss started in with ominous and icy words:
"Mr. Blank, I am not going to criticize you for what you have written. On the other hand, I am profoundly sorry for you. I have watched your work recently, and it is my opinion, reached after calm and dispassionate observation, that you are mentally unbalanced. You are insane. Your mind is a wreck. Your friends should take you in hand. The very kindest suggestion I can make is that you visit an alienist and place yourself under treatment. So far you have shown no sign of violence, but what the future holds for you no one can tell. I say this in all kindness and frankness. You are discharged."
The reporter walked out of the office and wandered up to Bellevue Hospital. He visited the insane pavilion, and told the resident surgeon that there was a suspicion that he was not all right mentally and asked to be examined. The doctor put him through the regular routine and then said,
"Right as a top."
"Sure?" asked the reporter. "Will you give me a certificate to that effect?" The doctor said he would and did. Clutching the certificate tightly in his hand the reporter entered the office an hour later, walked up to the city editor, handed it to him silently, and then blurted out,
"Now you go get one."
Along in the sixties Pat Casey pushed a wheelbarrow across the plains from St. Joseph, Mo., to Georgetown, Colo., and shortly after that he "struck it rich"; in fact, he was credited with having more wealth than any one else in Colorado. A man of great shrewdness and ability, he was exceedingly sensitive over his inability to read or write. One day an old-timer met him with:
"How are you getting along, Pat?"
"Go 'way from me now," said Pat genially, "me head's bustin' wid business. It takes two lid-pincils a day to do me wurruk."
A catalog of farming implements sent out by the manufacturer finally found its way to a distant mountain village where it was evidently welcomed with interest. The firm received a carefully written, if somewhat clumsily expressed letter from a southern "cracker" asking further particulars about one of the listed articles.
To this, in the usual course of business, was sent a type-written answer. Almost by return mail came a reply:
"You fellows need not think you are so all-fired smart, and you need not print your letters to me. I can read writing."
An American motorist went to Germany in his car to the army maneuvers. He was especially impressed with the German motor ambulances. As the tourist watched the maneuvers from a seat under a tree, the axle of one of the motor ambulances broke. Instantly the man leaped out, ran into the village, returned in a jiffy with a new axle, fixed it in place with wonderful skill, and teuffed-teuffed off again almost as good as new.
"There's efficiency for you," said the American admirably. "There's German efficiency for you. No matter what breaks, there's always a stock at hand from which to supply the needed part."
And praising the remarkable instance of German efficiency he had just witnessed, the tourist returned to the village and ordered up his car. But he couldn't use it. The axle was missing.
A curious little man sat next an elderly, prosperous looking man in a smoking car.
"How many people work in your office?" he asked.
"Oh," responded the elderly man, getting up and throwing away his cigar, "I should say, at a rough guess, about two-thirds of them."
In the Chicago schools a boy refused to sew, thinking it below the dignity of a man of ten years.
"Why," said the teacher, "George Washington did his own sewing in the wars, and do you think you are better than George Washington?"
"I don't know," replied the boy seriously. "Only time can tell that."
John D. Rockefeller tells this story on himself:
"Golfing one bright winter day I had for caddie a boy who didn't know me.
"An unfortunate stroke landed me in clump of high grass.
"'My, my,' I said, 'what am I to do now?'
"'See that there tree?' said the boy, pointing to a tall tree a mile away. 'Well, drive straight for that.'
"I lofted vigorously, and, fortunately, my ball soared up into the air; it landed, and it rolled right on to the putting green.
"'How's that, my boy?' I cried.
"The caddie stared at me with envious eyes.
"'Gee, boss,' he said, 'if I had your strength and you had my brains what a pair we'd make!'"
The late Marshall Field had a very small office-boy who came to the great merchant one day with a request for an increase in wages.
"Huh!" said Mr. Field, looking at him as if through a magnifying-glass. "Want a raise, do you? How much are you getting?"
"Three dollars a week," chirped the little chap.
"Three dollars a week!" exclaimed his employer. "Why, when I was your age I only got two dollars."
"Oh, well, that's different," piped the youngster. "I guess you weren't worth any more."
Here's to the man who is wisest and best,Here's to the man who with judgment is blest.Here's to the man who's as smart as can be—I mean the man who agrees with me.
Here's to the man who is wisest and best,Here's to the man who with judgment is blest.Here's to the man who's as smart as can be—I mean the man who agrees with me.
Here's to the man who is wisest and best,
Here's to the man who with judgment is blest.
Here's to the man who's as smart as can be—
I mean the man who agrees with me.
In St. Louis there is one ward that is full of breweries and Germans. In a recent election a local option question was up.
After the election some Germans were counting the votes. One German was calling off and another taking down the option votes. The first German, running rapidly through the ballots, said: "Vet, vet, vet, vet,..." Suddenly he stopped. "Mein Gott!" he cried: "Dry!"
Then he went on—"Vet, vet, vet, vet,..."
Presently he stopped again and mopped his brow. "Himmel!" he said. "Der son of a gun repeated!"
WILLIS—"What's the election today for? Anybody happen to know?"
GILLIS—"It is to determine whether we shall have a convention to nominate delegates who will be voted on as to whether they will attend a caucus which will decide whether we shall have a primary to determine whether the people want to vote on this same question again next year."—Puck.
One year, when the youngsters of a certain Illinois village met for the purpose of electing a captain of their baseball team for the coming season, it appeared that there were an excessive number of candidates for the post, with more than the usual wrangling.
Youngster after youngster presented his qualifications for the post; and the matter was still undecided when the son of the owner of the ball-field stood up. He was a small, snub-nosed lad, with a plentiful supply of freckles, but he glanced about him with a dignified air of controlling the situation.
"I'm going to be captain this year," he announced convincingly, "or else Father's old bull is going to be turned into the field."
He was elected unanimously.—Fenimore Martin.
I consider biennial elections as a security that the sober second thought of the people shall be law.—Fisher Ames.
In school a boy was asked this question in physics: "What is the difference between lightning and electricity?"
And he answered: "Well, you don't have to pay for lightning."
A young gentleman was spending the week-end at little Willie's cottage at Atlantic City, and on Sunday evening after dinner, there being a scarcity of chairs on the crowded piazza, the young gentleman took Willie on his lap.
Then, during a pause in the conversation, little Willie looked up at the young gentleman and piped:
"Am I as heavy as sister Mabel?"
The late Charles Coghlan was a man of great wit and resource. When he was living in London, his wife started for an out-of-town visit. For some reason she found it necessary to return home, and on her way thither she saw her husband step out of a cab and hand a lady from it. Mrs. Coghlan confronted the pair. The actor was equal to the situation.
"My dear," he said to his wife, "allow me to present Miss Blank. Mrs. Coghlan, Miss Blank."
The two bowed coldly while Coghlan quickly added:
"I know you ladies have ever so many things you want to say to each other, so I will ask to be excused."
He lifted his hat, stepped into the cab, and was whirled away.
The evening callers were chatting gaily with the Kinterbys when a patter of little feet was heard from the head of the stairs. Mrs. Kinterby raised her hand, warning the others to silence.
"Hush!" she said, softly. "The children are going to deliver their 'good-night' message. It always gives me a feeling of reverence to hear them—they are so much nearer the Creator than we are, and they speak the love that is in their little hearts never so fully as when the dark has come. Listen!"
There was a moment of tense silence. Then—"Mama," came the message in a shrill whisper, "Willy found a bedbug!"
"I was in an awkward predicament yesterday morning," said a husband to another.
"How was that?"
"Why, I came home late, and my wife heard me and said, 'John, what time is it?' and I said, 'Only twelve, my dear,' and just then that cuckoo clock of ours sang out three times."
"What did you do?"
"Why, I just had to stand there and cuckoo nine times more."
"Your husband will be all right now," said an English doctor to a woman whose husband was dangerously ill.
"What do you mean?" demanded the wife. "You told me 'e couldn't live a fortnight."
"Well, I'm going to cure him, after all," said the doctor. "Surely you are glad?"
The woman wrinkled her brows.
"Puts me in a bit of an 'ole," she said. "I've bin an' sold all 'is clothes to pay for 'is funeral."
"You want more money? Why, my boy, I worked three years for $11 a month right in this establishment, and now I'm owner of it."
"Well, you see what happened to your boss. No man who treats his help that way can hang on to his business."
EARNEST YOUNG MAN—"Have you any advice to a struggling young employee?"
FRANK OLD GENTLEMAN—"Yes. Don't work."
EARNEST YOUNG MAN—"Don't work?"
FRANK OLD GENTLEMAN—"No. Become an employer."
General Benjamin F. Butler built a house in Washington on the same plans as his home in Lowell, Mass., and his studies were furnished in exactly the same way. He and his secretary, M. W. Clancy, afterward City Clerk of Washington for many years, were constantly traveling between the two places.
One day a senator called upon General Butler in Lowell and the next day in Washington to find him and his secretary engaged upon the same work that had occupied them in Massachusetts.
"Heavens, Clancy, don't you ever stop?"
"No," interposed General Butler,
"'Satan finds some michief stillFor idle hands to do.'"
"'Satan finds some michief stillFor idle hands to do.'"
"'Satan finds some michief still
For idle hands to do.'"
Clancy arose and bowed, saying:
"General, I never was sure until now what my employer was. I had heard the rumor, but I always discredited it."
W.J. ("Fingy") Conners, the New York politician, who is not precisely a Chesterfield, secured his first great freight-handling contract when he was a roustabout on the Buffalo docks. When the job was about to begin he called a thousand burly "dock-wallopers" to order, as narrated by one of his business friends:
"Now," roared Conners, "yez are to worruk for me, and I want ivery man here to understand what's what. I kin lick anny man in the gang."
Nine hundred and ninety-nine swallowed the insult, but one huge, double-fisted warrior moved uneasily and stepping from the line he said "You can't lick me, Jim Conners."
"I can't, can't I?" bellowed "Fingy."
"No, you can't" was the determined response.
"Oh, well, thin, go to the office and git your money," said "Fingy." "I'll have no man in me gang that I can't lick."
Outside his own cleverness there is nothing that so delights Mr. Wiggins as a game of baseball, and when he gets a chance to exploit the two, both at the same time, he may be said to be the happiest man in the world. Hence it was that the other day, when little red headed Willie Mulligan, his office boy, came sniffing into his presence to ask for the afternoon off that he might attend his grandfather's funeral, Wiggins deemed it a masterly stroke to answer:
"Why, certainly, Willie. What's more, my boy, if you'll wait for me I'll go with you."
"All right, sir," sniffed Willie as he returned to his desk and waited patiently.
And, lo and behold, poor little Willie had told the truth, and when he and Wiggins started out together the latter not only lost one of the best games of the season, but had to attend the obsequies of an old lady in whom he had no interest whatever as well.
CHIEF CLERK (to office boy)—"Why on earth don't you laugh when the boss tells a joke?"
OFFICE BOY—"I don't have to; I quit on Saturday."—Satire.
James J. Hill, the Railway King, told the following amusing incident that happened on one of his roads:
"One of our division superintendents had received numerous complaints that freight trains were in the habit of stopping on a grade crossing in a certain small town, thereby blocking travel for long periods. He issued orders, but still the complaints came in. Finally he decided to investigate personally.
"A short man in size and very excitable, he went down to the crossing, and, sure enough, there stood, in defiance of his orders, a long freight train, anchored squarely across it. A brakeman who didn't know him by sight sat complacently on the top of the car.
"'Move that train on!' sputtered the little 'super.' 'Get it off the crossing so people can pass. Move on, I say!'
"The brakeman surveyed the tempestuous little man from head to foot. 'You go to the deuce, you little shrimp,' he replied. 'You're small enough to crawl under.'"