At a convention of Methodist Bishops held in Washington, the Bishop of New York made a stirring address extolling the powers and possibilities of his state. Bishop Hamilton, of California, like all good Californians, is imbued with the conviction that it would be hard to equal a place he knows of on the Pacific, and following the Bishop of New York he gave a glowing picture of California, concluding:
"Not only is it the best place on earth to live in, but it has superior advantages, too, as a place to die in; for there we have at our threshold the beautiful Golden Gate, while in New York they only have—well, you know which gate it is over at New York!" One night Dave Warfield was playing at David Belasco's new theatre, supported by one of Mr. Belasco's new companies. The performance ran with a smoothness of a Standard Oil lawyer explaining rebates to a Federal court. A worthy person of the farming classes, sitting in G 14, was plainly impressed. In an interval between the acts he turned to the metropolitan who had the seat next him.
"Where do all them troopers come from?" he inquired.
"I don't think I understand," said the city-dweller.
"I mean them actors up yonder on the stage," explained the man from afar. "Was they brought on specially for this show, or do they live here?"
"I believe most of them live here in town," said the New Yorker.
"Well, they do purty blamed well for home talent," said the stranger.
A traveler in Tennessee came across an aged negro seated in front of his cabin door basking in the sunshine.
"He could have walked right on the stage for an Uncle Tom part without a line of makeup," says the traveler. "He must have been eighty years of age."
"Good morning, uncle," says the stranger.
"Mornin', sah! Mornin'," said the aged one. Then he added, "Be you the gentleman over yonder from New York?"
Being told that such was the case the old darky said; "Do you mind telling me something that has been botherin' my old haid? I have got a grandson—he runs on the Pullman cyars—and he done tell me that up thar in New York you-all burn up youah folks when they die. He is a poherful liar, and I don't believe him."
"Yes," replied the other, "that is the truth in some cases. We call it cremation."
"Well, you suttenly surprise me," said the negro and then he paused as if in deep reflection. Finally he said: "You-all know I am a Baptist. I believe in the resurrection and the life everlastin' and the coming of the Angel Gabriel and the blowin' of that great horn, and Lawdy me, how am they evah goin' to find them folks on that great mawnin'?"
It was too great a task for an offhand answer, and the suggestion was made that the aged one consult his minister. Again the negro fell into a brown study, and then he raised his head and his eyes twinkled merrily, and he said in a soft voice:
"Meanin' no offense, sah, but from what Ah have heard about New York I kinder calcerlate they is a lot of them New York people that doan' wanter be found on that mornin'."
Soon after the installation of the telegraph in Fredericksburg, Virginia, a little darky, the son of my father's mammy, saw a piece of newspaper that had blown up on the telegraph wires and caught there. Running to my grandmother in a great state of excitement, he cried, "Miss Liza, come quick! Dem wires done buss and done let all the news out!"—Sue M.M. Halsey.
"Our whole neighborhood has been stirred up," said the regular reader.
The editor of the country weekly seized his pen. "Tell me about it," he said. "What we want is news. What stirred it up?"
"Plowing," said the farmer.
There is nothing new except what is forgotten.—Mademoiselle Berlin.
A kind old gentleman seeing a small boy who was carrying a lot of newspapers under his arm said: "Don't all those papers make you tired, my boy?"
"Naw, I don't read 'em," replied the lad.
VOX POPULI—"Do you think you've boosted your circulation by giving a year's subscription for the biggest potato raised in the county?"
THE EDITOR—"Mebbe not; but I got four barrels of samples."
COLONEL HIGHFLYER—"What are your rates per column?"
EDITOR OF "SWELL SOCIETY"—"For insertion or suppression?"—Life.
EDITOR—"You wish a position as a proofreader?"
APPLICANT—"Yes, sir."
"Do you understand the requirements of that responsible position?"
"Perfectly, sir. Whenever you make any mistakes in the paper, just blame 'em on me, and I'll never say a word."
A prominent Montana newspaper man was making the round of the insane asylum of that state in an official capacity as an inspector. One of the inmates mistook him for a recent arrival.
"What made you go crazy?"
"I was trying to make money out of the newspaper business," replied the editor, to humor the demented one.
"Rats, you're not crazy; you're just a plain darn fool," was the lunatic's comment.
"Did you write this report on my lecture, 'The Curse of Whiskey'?"
"Yes, madam."
"Then kindly explain what you mean by saying, 'The lecturer was evidently full of her subject!'"
We clip the following for the benefit of those who doubt the power of the press:
"Owing to the overcrowded condition of our columns, a number of births and deaths are unavoidably postponed this week."
"Binks has sued us for libel," announced the assistant editor of the sensational paper.
The managing editor's face brightened.
"Tell him," he said, "that if he will put up a strong fight we'll cheerfully pay the damages and charge them up to the advertising account."
Booth Tarkington says that in no state have the newspapers more "journalistic enterprise" than in his native Indiana. While stopping at a little Hoosier hotel in the course of a hunting trip Mr. Tarkington lost one of his dogs.
"Have you a newspaper in town?" he asked of the landlord.
"Right across the way, there, back of the shoemaker's," the landlord told him. "TheDaily News—best little paper of its size in the state."
The editor, the printer, and the printer's devil were all busy doing justice to Mr. Tarkington with an "in-our-midst" paragraph when the novelist arrived.
"I've just lost a dog," Tarkington explained after he had introduced himself, "and I'd like to have you insert this ad for me: 'Fifty dollars reward for the return of a pointer dog answering to the name of Rex. Disappeared from the yard of the Mansion House Monday night.'"
"Why, we are just going to press, sir," the editor said, "but we'll be only too glad to hold the edition for your ad."
Mr. Tarkington returned to the hotel. After a few minutes he decided, however, that it might be well to add, "No questions asked" to his advertisement, and returned to theDaily Newsoffice.
The place was deserted, save for the skinny little freckle-faced devil, who sat perched on a high stool, gazing wistfully out of the window.
"Where is everybody?" Tarkington asked.
"Gawn to hunt for th' dawg," replied the boy.
"You are the greatest inventor in the world," exclaimed a newspaper man to Alexander Graham Bell.
"Oh, no, my friend, I'm not," said Professor Bell. "I've never been a reporter."
Not long ago a city editor in Ottumwa, Iowa, was told over the telephone that a prominent citizen had just died suddenly. He called a reporter and told him to rush out and get the "story." Twenty minutes later the reporter returned, sat down at his desk, and began to rattle off copy on his typewriter.
"Well, what about it?" asked the city editor.
"Oh, nothing much," replied the reporter, without looking up. "He was walking along the street when he suddenly clasped his hands to his heart and said, 'I'm going to die!' Then he leaned up against a fence and made good."
Enraged over something the local newspaper had printed about him, a subscriber burst into the editor's office in search of the responsible reporter. "Who are you?" he demanded, glaring at the editor, who was also the main stockholder.
"I'm the newspaper," was the calm reply.
"And who are you?" he next inquired, turning his resentful gaze on the chocolate-colored office-devil clearing out the waste basket.
"Me?" rejoined the darky, grinning from ear to ear. "Ah guess ah's de cul'ud supplement."
Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.—Napoleon I.
Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever lays one down without a feeling of disappointment.—Charles Lamb.
SeeCorpulence.
If you have frequent fainting spells, accompanied by chills, cramps, corns, bunions, chilblains, epilepsy and jaundice, it is a sign that you are not well, but liable to die any minute. Pay your subscription in advance and thus make yourself solid for a good obituary notice.—Mountain Echo.
Seealso Epitaphs.
In his daily half hour confidential talk with his boy an ambitious father tried to give some good advice.
"Be observing, my son," said the father on one occasion. "Cultivate the habit of seeing, and you will be a successful man. Study things and remember them. Don't go through the world blindly. Learn to use your eyes. Boys who are observing know a great deal more than those who are not."
Willie listened in silence.
Several days later when the entire family, consisting of his mother, aunt and uncle, were present, his father said:
"Well, Willie, have you kept using your eyes as I advised you to do?"
Willie nodded, and after a moment's hesitation said:
"I've seen a few things right around the house. Uncle Jim's got a bottle of hair dye hid under his trunk, Aunt Jennie's got an extra set of teeth in her dresser, Ma's got some curls in her hat, and Pa's got a deck of cards and a box of chips behind the books in the secretary."
Mrs. Hennessey, who was a late arrival in the neighborhood, was entertaining a neighbor one afternoon, when the latter inquired:
"An' what does your old man do, Mrs. Hennessey?"
"Sure, he's a di'mond-cuttter."
"Ye don't mane it!"
"Yis; he cuts th' grass off th' baseball grounds."—L.F. Clarke.
All business men are apt to use the technical terms of their daily labors in situations outside of working hours. One time a railroad man was entertaining his pastor at dinner and his sons, who had to wait until their elders had finished got into mischief. At the end of the meal, their father excused himself for a moment saying he had to "switch some empties."
"Professor," said Miss Skylight, "I want you to suggest a course in life for me. I have thought of journalism—"
"What are your own inclinations?"
"Oh, my soul yearns and throbs and pulsates with an ambition to give the world a life-work that shall be marvelous in its scope, and weirdly entrancing in the vastness of its structural beauty!"
"Woman, you're born to be a milliner."
A woman, when asked her husband's occupation, said he was a mixologist. The city directory called him a bartender.
"A good turkey dinner and mince pie," said a well-known after-dinner orator, "always puts us in a lethargic mood—makes us feel, in fact, like the natives of Nola Chucky. In Nola Chucky one day I said to a man:
"'What is the principal occupation of this town?'
"'Wall, boss,' the man answered, yawning, 'in winter they mostly sets on the east side of the house and follers the sun around to the west, and in summer they sets on the west side and follers the shade around to the east.'"
JONES—"How'd this happen? The last time I was here you were running a fish-market, and now you've got a cheese-shop."
SMITH—"Yes. Well, you see the doctor said I needed a change of air."
The ugliest of trades have their moments of pleasure. Now, if I were a grave-digger, or even a hangman, there are some people I could work for with a great deal of enjoyment—Douglas Jerrold.
A resident of Nahant tells this one on a new servant his wife took down from Boston.
"Did you sleep well, Mary?" the girl was asked the following morning.
"Sure, I did not, ma'am," was the reply; "the snorin' of the ocean kept me awake all night."
Love the sea? I dote upon it—from the beach.—Douglas Jerrold.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great sea more and more.—Barry Cornwall.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,But I loved the great sea more and more.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more.
—Barry Cornwall.
—Barry Cornwall.
"Have you had any experience as an office-boy?"
"I should say I had, mister; why, I'm a dummy director in three mining-companies now."
A gentleman, not at all wealthy, who had at one time represented in Congress, through a couple of terms a district not far from the national capitol, moved to California where in a year or so he rose to be sufficiently prominent to become a congressional subject, and he was visited by the central committee of his district to be talked to.
"We want you," said the spokesman, "to accept the nomination for Congress."
"I can't do it, gentlemen," he responded promptly.
"You must," the spokesman demanded.
"But I can't," he insisted. "I'm too poor."
"Oh, that will be all right; we've got plenty of money for the campaign."
"But that is nothing," contended the gentleman; "it's the expense in Washington. I've been there, and know all about it."
"Well you didn't lose by it, and it doesn't cost any more because you come from California."
The gentleman became very earnest.
"Doesn't it?" he exclaimed in a business-like tone. "Why my dear sirs, I used to have to send home every month about half a dozen busted office-seeker constituents, and the fare was only $3 apiece, and I could stand it, but it would cost me over $100 a head to send them out here, and I'm no millionaire; therefore, as much as I regret it, I must insist on declining."
"On a trip to Washington," said Col. W.F. Cody. "I had for a companion Sousa, the band leader. We had berths opposite each other. Early one morning as we approached the capital I thought I would have a little fun. I got a morning paper, and, after rustling it a few minutes, I said to Sousa:
"'That's the greatest order Cleveland has just issued!'
"'What's that?' came from the opposite berth.
"'Why he's ordered all the office-seekers rounded up at the depot and sent home.'
"You should have seen the general consternation that ensued. From almost every berth on the car a head came out from between the curtains, and with one accord nearly every man shouted:
'What's that?'"
SeeAge.
SeePaintings.
Can the Burbanks of the glorious WestEither make or buy or sellAn onion with an onion's tasteBut with a violet's smell?
Can the Burbanks of the glorious WestEither make or buy or sellAn onion with an onion's tasteBut with a violet's smell?
Can the Burbanks of the glorious West
Either make or buy or sell
An onion with an onion's taste
But with a violet's smell?
SHE—"They say that an apple a day will keep the doctor away."
HE—"Why stop there? An onion a day will keep everybody away."
"Which do you consider the most melodious Wagnerian opera?" asked Mrs. Cumrox.
"There are several I haven't heard, aren't there?" rejoined her husband.
"Yes."
"Then I guess it's one of them."
Many a man creates his own lack of opportunities.—Life.
Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,Shall never find it more.—Shakespeare.
Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,Shall never find it more.
Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,
Shall never find it more.
—Shakespeare.
—Shakespeare.
In life's small things be resolute and greatTo keep thy muscles trained; know'st thou when fateThy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,"I find thee worthy, do this thing for me!"—Emerson.
In life's small things be resolute and greatTo keep thy muscles trained; know'st thou when fateThy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,"I find thee worthy, do this thing for me!"
In life's small things be resolute and great
To keep thy muscles trained; know'st thou when fate
Thy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,
"I find thee worthy, do this thing for me!"
—Emerson.
—Emerson.
Optimism is Worry on a spree.—Judge.
An optimist is a man who doesn't care what happens just so is doesn't happen to him.
An optimist is the fellow who doesn't know what's coming to him.—J.J. O'Connell.
An optimist is a woman who thinks that everything is for the best, and that she is the best.-Judge.
A political optimist is a fellow who can make sweet, pink lemonade out of the bitter yellow fruit which his opponents hand him.
Mayor William S. Jordan, at a Democratic banquet in Jacksonville, said of optimism:
"Let us cultivate optimism and hopefulness. There is nothing like it. The optimistic man can see a bright side to everything—everything.
"A missionary in a slum once laid his hand on a man's shoulder and said:
"'Friend, do you hear the solemn ticking of that clock? Tick-tack; tick-tack. And oh, friend, do you know what day it inexorably and relentlessly brings nearer?"
"'Yes-pay day,' the other, an honest, optimistic workingman, replied."
A Scotsman who has a keen appreciation of the strong characteristics of his countrymen delights in the story of a druggist known both for his thrift and his philosophy.
Once he was aroused from a deep sleep by the ringing of his night bell. He went down to his little shop and sold a dose of rather nauseous medicine to a distressed customer.
"What profit do you make out of that?" grumbled his wife.
"A ha'penny," was the cheerful answer.
"And for that bit of money you'll lie awake maybe an hour," she said impatiently.
"Never grumble o'er that, woman," was his placid answer. "The dose will keep him awake all night. We must thank heaven we ha' the profit and none o' the pain o' this transaction."
A German shoemaker left the gas turned on in his shop one night and upon arriving in the morning struck a match to light it.
There was a terrific explosion, and the shoemaker was blown out through the door almost to the middle of the street.
A passer-by rushed to his assistance, and, after helping him to rise, inquired if he was injured.
The little German gazed at his place of business, which was now burning quite briskly, and said:
"No, I ain't hurt. But I got out shust in time, eh?"
My own hope is, a sun will pierceThe thickest cloud earth ever stretched;That, after Last, returns the First,Tho' a wide compass round be fetched;That what began best, can't prove worst,Nor what God blessed once, prove accursed.—Browning.
My own hope is, a sun will pierceThe thickest cloud earth ever stretched;That, after Last, returns the First,Tho' a wide compass round be fetched;That what began best, can't prove worst,Nor what God blessed once, prove accursed.
My own hope is, a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;
That, after Last, returns the First,
Tho' a wide compass round be fetched;
That what began best, can't prove worst,
Nor what God blessed once, prove accursed.
—Browning.
—Browning.
It is narrated that Colonel Breckenridge, meeting Majah Buffo'd on the streets of Lexington one day asked: "What's the meaning, suh, of the conco's befor' the co't house?"
To which the majah replied:
"General Buckneh is making a speech. General Buckneh suh, is a bo'n oratah."
"What do you mean by bo'n oratah?"
"If you or I, suh, were asked how much two and two make, we would reply 'foh.' When this is asked of a bo'n oratah, he replies: 'When in the co'se of human events it becomes necessary to take an integah of the second denomination and add it, suh, to an integah of the same denomination, the result, suh—and I have the science of mathematics to back me up in my judgment—the result, suh, and I say it without feah of successful contradiction, suh-the result is fo'' That's a bo'n oratah."
When Demosthenes was asked what was the first part of Oratory, he answered, "Action," and which was the second, he replied, "Action," and which was the third, he still answered "Action."—Plutarch.
One day, in the spring of '74, Cap Smith's freight outfit pulled into Helena, Montana. After unloading the freight, the "mule-skinners," to a man, repaired to the Combination Gambling House and proceeded to load themselves. Late in the afternoon, Zeb White, Smith's oldest skinner, having exchanged all of his hard coin for liquid refreshment, zigzagged into the corral, crawled under a wagon, and went to sleep. After supper, Smith, making his nightly rounds, happened on the sleeping Zeb.
"Kinder chilly, ain't it?" he asked, after earnestly prodding Zeb with a convenient stick.
"I reckon 'tis," Zeb drowsily mumbled.
"Ain't yer 'fraid ye'll freeze?"
'"Tis cold, ain't it? Say, Cap, jest throw on another wagon, will yer?"
SeeArt.
She had engaged a maid recently from the country, and was now employed in showing her newly acquired treasure over the house and enlightening her in regard to various duties, etc. At last they reached the best room. "These," said the mistress of the house, pausing before an extensive row of masculine portraits, "are very valuable, and you must be very careful when dusting. They are old masters." Mary's jaw dropped, and a look of intense wonder overspread her rubicund face.
"Lor', mum," she gasped, gazing with bulging eyes on the face of her new employer, "lor', mum, who'd ever 'ave thought you'd been married all these times!"
A picture is a poem without words.—Cornificus.
One night at a theatre some scenery took fire, and a very perceptible odor of burning alarmed the spectators. A panic seemed to be imminent, when an actor appeared on the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "compose yourselves. There is no danger."
The audience did not seem reassured.
"Ladies and gentlemen," continued the comedian, rising to the necessity of the occasion, "confound it all—do you think if there was any danger I'd be here?"
The panic collapsed.
William, aged five, had been reprimanded by his father for interrupting while his father was telling his mother about the new telephone for their house. He sulked awhile, then went to his mother, and, patting her on the cheeks, said, "Mother dear, I love you."
"Don't you love me too?" asked his father.
Without glancing at him, William said disdainfully, "The wire's busy."
"What does your mother say when you tell her those dreadful lies?"
"She says I take after father."
"A little lad was desperately ill, but refused to take the medicine the doctor had left. At last his mother gave him up.
"Oh, my boy will die; my boy will die," she sobbed.
But a voice spoke from the bed, "Don't cry, mother. Father'll be home soon and he'll make me take it."
Mrs. White was undoubtedly the disciplinarian of the family. The master of the house, a professor, and consequently a very busy man, was regarded by the children as one of themselves, subject to the laws of "Mother."
Mrs. White had been ill for some weeks and although the father felt that the children were showing evidence of running wild, he seemed powerless to correct the fault. One evening at dinner, however, he felt obliged to reprimand Marion severely.
"Marion," he said, sternly, "stop that at once, or I shall take you from the table and punish you soundly."
He experienced a feeling of profound satisfaction in being able to thus reprove when it was necessary and glanced across the table expecting to see a very demure little miss. Instead, Marion and her little brother exchanged glances and then simultaneously a grin overspread their faces, while Marion said in a mirthful tone:
"Oh, Francis, hear father trying to talk like mother!"
Robert has lately acquired a stepmother. Hoping to win his affection this new parent has been very lenient with him, while his father, feeling his responsibility, has been unusually strict. The boys of the neighborhood, who had taken pains to warn Robert of the terrible character of stepmothers in general, recently waited on him in a body, and the following conversation was overheard:
"How do you like your stepmother, Bob?"
"Like her! Why fellers, I just love her. All I wish is I had a stepfather, too."
"Well, Bobby, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
BOBBY (remembering private seance in the wood-shed)—"A orphan."
Little Eleanor's mother was an American, while her father was a German.
One day, after Eleanor had been subjected to rather severe disciplinary measures at the hands of her father, she called her mother into another room, closed the door significantly, and said: "Mother, I don't want to meddle in your business, but I wish you'd send that husband of yours back to Germany."
The lawyer was sitting at his desk absorbed in the preparation of a brief. So bent was he on his work that he did not hear the door as it was pushed gently open, nor see the curly head that was thrust into his office. A little sob attracted his notice, and, turning he saw a face that was streaked with tears and told plainly that feelings had been hurt.
"Well, my little man, did you want to see me?"
"Are you a lawyer?"
"Yes. What do you want?"
"I want"—and there was resolute ring in his voice—"I want a divorce from my papa and mama."
Pat had but a limited knowledge of the bird kingdom. One day, walking down the street, he noticed a green bird in a cage, talking and singing. Thinking to pet it he stroked its head. The bird turned quickly, screaming, "Hello! What do you want?" Pat shied off like a frightened horse, lifting his hat and bowing politely as he stuttered out: "Ex-excuse me s-sir, I thought you was a burrd!"
A West Virginia darky, a blacksmith, recently announced a change in his business as follows: "Notice—De co-pardnership heretofore resisting between me and Mose Skinner is hereby resolved. Dem what owe de firm will settle wid me, and dem what de firm owes will settle wid Mose."
"I want to change my password," said the man who had for two years rented a safety-deposit box.
"Very well," replied the man in charge. "What is the old one?"
"Gladys."
"And what do you wish the new one to be?"
"Mabel. Gladys has gone to Reno."
Senator Tillman not long ago piloted a plain farmer-constituent around the Capitol for a while, and then, having some work to do on the floor, conducted him to the Senate gallery.
After an hour or so the visitor approached a gallery door-keeper and said: "My name is Swate. I am a friend of Senator Tillman. He brought me here and I want to go out and look around a bit. I though I would tell you so I can get back in."
"That's all right," said the doorkeeper, "but I may not be here when you return. In order to prevent any mistake I will give you the password so you can get your seat again."
Swate's eyes rather popped out at this. "What's the word?" he asked.
"Idiosyncrasy."
"What?"
"Idiosyncrasy."
"I guess I'll stay in," said Swate.
"Your husband seems to be very impatient lately."
"Yes, he is, very."
"What is the matter with him?"
"He is getting tired waiting for a chance to get out where he can sit patiently hour after hour waiting for a fish to nibble at his bait."
General Gordon, the Confederate commander, used to tell the following story: He was sitting by the roadside one blazing hot day when a dilapidated soldier, his clothing in rags, a shoe lacking, his head bandaged, and his arm in a sling, passed him. He was soliloquizing in this manner:
"I love my country. I'd fight for my country. I'd starve and go thirsty for my country. I'd die for my country. But if ever this damn war is over I'll never love another country!"
A snobbish young Englishman visiting Washington's home at Mount Vernon was so patronizing as to arouse the wrath of guards and caretakers; but it remained for "Shep" Wright, an aged gardener and one of the first scouts of the Confederate army, to settle the gentleman. Approaching "Shep," the Englishman said:
"Ah—er—my man, the hedge! Yes, I see, George got this hedge from dear old England."
"Reckon he did," replied "Shep". "He got this whole blooming country from England."
Speaking of the policy of the Government of the United States with respect to its troublesome neighbors in Central and South America, "Uncle Joe" Cannon told of a Missouri congressman who is decidedly opposed to any interference in this regard by our country. It seems that this spring the Missourian met an Englishman at Washington with whom he conversed touching affairs in the localities mentioned. The westerner asserted his usual views with considerable forcefulness, winding up with this observation:
"The whole trouble is that we Americans need a —— good licking!"
"You do, indeed!" promptly asserted the Britisher, as if pleased by the admission. But his exultation was of brief duration, for the Missouri man immediately concluded with:
"But there ain't nobody can do it!"
A number of Confederate prisoners, during the Civil War, were detained at one of the western military posts under conditions much less unpleasant than those to be found in the ordinary military prison. Most of them appreciated their comparatively good fortune. One young fellow, though, could not be reconciled to association with Yankees under any circumstances, and took advantage of every opportunity to express his feelings. He was continually rubbing it in about the battle of Chickamauga, which had just been fought with such disastrous results for the Union forces.
"Maybe we didn't eat you up at Chickamauga!" was the way he generally greeted a bluecoat.
The Union men, when they could stand it no longer, reported the matter to General Grant. Grant summoned the prisoner.
"See here," said Grant, "I understand that you are continually insulting the men here with reference to the battle of Chickamauga. They have borne with you long enough, and I'm going to give you your choice of two things. You will either take the oath of allegiance to the United States, or be sent to a Northern prison. Choose."
The prisoner was silent for some time. "Well," he said at last, in a resigned tone, "I reckon, General, I'll take the oath."
The oath was duly administered. Turning to Grant, the fellow then asked, very penitently, if he might speak.
"Yes," said the general indifferently. "What is it?"
"Why, I was just thinkin', General," he drawled, "they certainly did give us hell at Chickamauga."
Historical controversies are creeping into the schools. In a New York public institution attended by many races, during an examination in history the teacher asked a little chap who discovered America.
He was evidently thrown into a panic and hesitated, much to the teacher's surprise, to make any reply.
"Oh, please, ma'am," he finally stammered, "ask me somethin' else."
"Something else, Jimmy? Why should I do that?"
"The fellers was talkin' 'bout it yesterday," replied Jimmy, "Pat McGee said it was discovered by an Irish saint. Olaf, he said it was a sailor from Norway, and Giovanni said it was Columbus, an' if you'd a-seen what happened you wouldn't ask a little feller like me."
Our country! When right to be kept right; when wrong to be put right!—Carl Schurz.
Our country! In her intercourse with foreign nations, may she always be in the right; but our country, right or wrong.—Stephen Decatur.
There are no points of the compass on the chart of true patriotism.—Robert C. Winthrop.
Patriotic exercises and flag worship will avail nothing unless the states give to their people of the kind of government that arouses patriotism.—Franklin Pierce II.