Mrs. Philpots came panting downstairs on her way to the temperance society meeting. She was a short, plump woman. "Addie, run up to my room and get my blue ribbon rosette, the temperance badge," she directed her maid. "I have forgotten it. You will know it, Addie—blue ribbon and gold lettering."
"Yas'm, I knows it right well." Addie could not read, but she knew a blue ribbon with gold lettering when she saw it, and therefore had not trouble in finding it and fastening it properly on the dress of her mistress.
At the meeting Mrs. Philpots was too busy greeting her friends to note that they smiled when they shook hands with her. When she reached home supper was served, so she went directly to the dining-room, where the other members of the family were seated.
"Gracious me, Mother!" exclaimed her son: "that blue ribbon—you haven't been wearing that at the temperance meeting?"
A loud laugh went up on all sides.
"Why, what is it, Harry?" asked the good woman, clutching at the ribbon in surprise.
"Why, Mother dear, didn't you know that was the ribbon I won at the show?"
The gold lettering on the ribbon read:
INTERSTATE POULTRY SHOW
First Prize Bantam
Friday, June 19, 2009
BACTERIA
There once were some learned M.D.'s,
Who captured some germs of disease,
And infected a train
Which, without causing pain,
Allowed one to catch it with ease.
Two doctors met in the hall of the hospital.
"Well," said the first, "what's new this morning?"
"I've got a most curious case. Woman, cross-eyed; in fact, so cross-eyed that when she cries the tears run down her back."
"What are you doing for her?"
"Just now," was the answer, "we're treating her for bacteria."
Who captured some germs of disease,
And infected a train
Which, without causing pain,
Allowed one to catch it with ease.
Two doctors met in the hall of the hospital.
"Well," said the first, "what's new this morning?"
"I've got a most curious case. Woman, cross-eyed; in fact, so cross-eyed that when she cries the tears run down her back."
"What are you doing for her?"
"Just now," was the answer, "we're treating her for bacteria."
BACCALAUREATE SERMONS
PROUD FATHER—"Rick, my boy, if you live up to your oration you'll be an honor to the family."
VALEDICTORIAN-"I expect to do better than that, father. I am going to try to live up to the baccalaureate sermon."
VALEDICTORIAN-"I expect to do better than that, father. I am going to try to live up to the baccalaureate sermon."
AVIATORS
Little drops in water—
Little drops on land—
Make the aviator,
Join the heavenly band.
—Satire.
"Are you an experienced aviator?"
"Well, sir, I have been at it six weeks and I am all here."—Life.
Little drops on land—
Make the aviator,
Join the heavenly band.
—Satire.
"Are you an experienced aviator?"
"Well, sir, I have been at it six weeks and I am all here."—Life.
AVIATION
The aviator's wife was taking her first trip with her husband in his airship. "Wait a minute, George," she said. "I'm afraid we will have to go down again."
"What's wrong?" asked her husband.
"I believe I have dropped one of the pearl buttons off my jacket. I think I can see it glistening on the ground."
"Keep your seat, my dear," said the aviator, "that's Lake Erie."
AVIATOR (to young assistant, who has begun to be frightened)—"Well, what do you want now?"
ASSISTANT (whimpering)—"I want the earth."—Abbie C. Dixon.
When Claude Grahame-White the famous aviator, author of "The Aeroplane in War," was in this country not long ago, he was spending a week-end at a country home. He tells the following story of an incident that was very amusing to him.
"The first night that I arrived, a dinner party was given. Feeling very enthusiastic over the recent flights, I began to tell the young woman who was my partner at the table of some of the details of the aviation sport.
"It was not until the dessert was brought on that I realized that I had been doing all the talking; indeed, the young woman seated next me had not uttered a single word since I first began talking about aviation. Perhaps she was not interested in the subject, I thought, although to an enthusiast like me it seemed quite incredible.
"'I am afraid I have been boring you with this shop talk," I said, feeling as if I should apologize.
"'Oh, not at all,' she murmured, in very polite tones; 'but would you mind telling me, what is aviation?'"—M.A. Hitchcock.
"What's wrong?" asked her husband.
"I believe I have dropped one of the pearl buttons off my jacket. I think I can see it glistening on the ground."
"Keep your seat, my dear," said the aviator, "that's Lake Erie."
AVIATOR (to young assistant, who has begun to be frightened)—"Well, what do you want now?"
ASSISTANT (whimpering)—"I want the earth."—Abbie C. Dixon.
When Claude Grahame-White the famous aviator, author of "The Aeroplane in War," was in this country not long ago, he was spending a week-end at a country home. He tells the following story of an incident that was very amusing to him.
"The first night that I arrived, a dinner party was given. Feeling very enthusiastic over the recent flights, I began to tell the young woman who was my partner at the table of some of the details of the aviation sport.
"It was not until the dessert was brought on that I realized that I had been doing all the talking; indeed, the young woman seated next me had not uttered a single word since I first began talking about aviation. Perhaps she was not interested in the subject, I thought, although to an enthusiast like me it seemed quite incredible.
"'I am afraid I have been boring you with this shop talk," I said, feeling as if I should apologize.
"'Oh, not at all,' she murmured, in very polite tones; 'but would you mind telling me, what is aviation?'"—M.A. Hitchcock.
Friday, June 12, 2009
AUTOMOBILING
AUTOMOBILING
"Sorry, gentlemen," said the new constable, "but I'll hev to run ye in. We been keepin' tabs on ye sence ye left Huckleberry Corners."
"Why, that's nonsense!" said Dubbleigh. "It's taken us four hours to come twenty miles, thanks to a flabby tire. That's only five miles an hour."
"Sure!" said the new constable, "but the speed law round these here parts is ten mile an hour, and by Jehosophat I'm goin' to make you ottermobile fellers live up to it."
Two street pedlers in Bradford, England, bought a horse for $11.25. It was killed by a motor-car one day and the owner of the car paid them $115 for the loss. Thereupon a new industry sprang up on the roads of England.
"It was very romantic," says the friend. "He proposed to her in the automobile."
"Yes?" we murmur, encouragingly.
"And she accepted him in the hospital."
"What you want to do is to have that mudhole in the road fixed," said the visitor.
"That goes to show," replied Farmer Corntassel, "how little you reformers understand local conditions. I've purty nigh paid off a mortgage with the money I made haulm' automobiles out o' that mud-hole."
The old lady from the country and her small son were driving to town when a huge automobile bore down upon them. The horse was badly frightened and began to prance, whereupon the old lady leaped down and waved wildly to the chauffeur, screaming at the top of her voice.
The chauffeur stopped the car and offered to help get the horse past.
"That's all right," said the boy, who remained composedly in the carriage, "I can manage the horse. You just lead Mother past."
"What makes you carry that horrible shriek machine for an automobile signal?"
"For humane reasons." replied Mr. Chugging. "If I can paralyze a person with fear he will keep still and I can run to one side of him."
In certain sections of West Virginia there is no liking for automobilists, as was evidenced in the case of a Washingtonian who was motoring in a sparsely settled region of the State.
This gentleman was haled before a local magistrate upon the complaint of a constable. The magistrate, a good-natured man, was not, however, absolutely certain that the Washingtonian's car had been driven too fast; and the owner stoutly insisted that he had been progressing at the rate of only six miles an hour.
"Why, your Honor," he said, "my engine was out of order, and I was going very slowly because I was afraid it would break down completely. I give you my word, sir, you could have walked as fast as I was running."
"Well," said the magistrate, after due reflection, "you don't appear to have been exceeding the speed limit, but at the same time you must have been guilty of something, or you wouldn't be here. I fine you ten dollars for loitering."—Fenimore Martin.
"Sorry, gentlemen," said the new constable, "but I'll hev to run ye in. We been keepin' tabs on ye sence ye left Huckleberry Corners."
"Why, that's nonsense!" said Dubbleigh. "It's taken us four hours to come twenty miles, thanks to a flabby tire. That's only five miles an hour."
"Sure!" said the new constable, "but the speed law round these here parts is ten mile an hour, and by Jehosophat I'm goin' to make you ottermobile fellers live up to it."
Two street pedlers in Bradford, England, bought a horse for $11.25. It was killed by a motor-car one day and the owner of the car paid them $115 for the loss. Thereupon a new industry sprang up on the roads of England.
"It was very romantic," says the friend. "He proposed to her in the automobile."
"Yes?" we murmur, encouragingly.
"And she accepted him in the hospital."
"What you want to do is to have that mudhole in the road fixed," said the visitor.
"That goes to show," replied Farmer Corntassel, "how little you reformers understand local conditions. I've purty nigh paid off a mortgage with the money I made haulm' automobiles out o' that mud-hole."
The old lady from the country and her small son were driving to town when a huge automobile bore down upon them. The horse was badly frightened and began to prance, whereupon the old lady leaped down and waved wildly to the chauffeur, screaming at the top of her voice.
The chauffeur stopped the car and offered to help get the horse past.
"That's all right," said the boy, who remained composedly in the carriage, "I can manage the horse. You just lead Mother past."
"What makes you carry that horrible shriek machine for an automobile signal?"
"For humane reasons." replied Mr. Chugging. "If I can paralyze a person with fear he will keep still and I can run to one side of him."
In certain sections of West Virginia there is no liking for automobilists, as was evidenced in the case of a Washingtonian who was motoring in a sparsely settled region of the State.
This gentleman was haled before a local magistrate upon the complaint of a constable. The magistrate, a good-natured man, was not, however, absolutely certain that the Washingtonian's car had been driven too fast; and the owner stoutly insisted that he had been progressing at the rate of only six miles an hour.
"Why, your Honor," he said, "my engine was out of order, and I was going very slowly because I was afraid it would break down completely. I give you my word, sir, you could have walked as fast as I was running."
"Well," said the magistrate, after due reflection, "you don't appear to have been exceeding the speed limit, but at the same time you must have been guilty of something, or you wouldn't be here. I fine you ten dollars for loitering."—Fenimore Martin.
AUTOMOBILES
AUTOMOBILES
TEACHER—"If a man saves $2 a week, how long will it take him to save a thousand?"
BOY—"He never would, ma'am. After he got $900 he'd buy a car."
"How fast is your car, Jimpson?" asked Harkaway.
"Well," said Jimpson, "it keeps about six months ahead of my income generally."
"What is the name of your automobile?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? What do your folks call it?"
"Oh, as to that, father always says 'The Mortgage'; brother Tom calls it 'The Fake'; mother, 'My Limousine'; sister, 'Our Car'; grandma, 'That Peril'; the chauffeur, 'Some Freak,' and our neighbors, 'The Limit.'"—Life.
"What little boy can tell me the difference between the 'quick' and the 'dead?'" asked the Sunday-school teacher.
Willie waved his hand frantically.
"Well, Willie?"
"Please, ma'am, the 'quick' are the ones that get out of the way of automobiles; the ones that don't are the 'dead.'"
"Do you have much trouble with your automobile?"
"Trouble! Say, I couldn't have more if I was married to the blamed machine."
A little "Brush" chugged painfully up to the gate of a race track.
The gate-keeper, demanding the usual fee for automobiles, called:
"A dollar for the car!"
The owner looked up with a pathetic smile of relief and said:
"Sold!"
Autos rush in where mortgages have dared to tread.
See also Fords; Profanity.
TEACHER—"If a man saves $2 a week, how long will it take him to save a thousand?"
BOY—"He never would, ma'am. After he got $900 he'd buy a car."
"How fast is your car, Jimpson?" asked Harkaway.
"Well," said Jimpson, "it keeps about six months ahead of my income generally."
"What is the name of your automobile?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? What do your folks call it?"
"Oh, as to that, father always says 'The Mortgage'; brother Tom calls it 'The Fake'; mother, 'My Limousine'; sister, 'Our Car'; grandma, 'That Peril'; the chauffeur, 'Some Freak,' and our neighbors, 'The Limit.'"—Life.
"What little boy can tell me the difference between the 'quick' and the 'dead?'" asked the Sunday-school teacher.
Willie waved his hand frantically.
"Well, Willie?"
"Please, ma'am, the 'quick' are the ones that get out of the way of automobiles; the ones that don't are the 'dead.'"
"Do you have much trouble with your automobile?"
"Trouble! Say, I couldn't have more if I was married to the blamed machine."
A little "Brush" chugged painfully up to the gate of a race track.
The gate-keeper, demanding the usual fee for automobiles, called:
"A dollar for the car!"
The owner looked up with a pathetic smile of relief and said:
"Sold!"
Autos rush in where mortgages have dared to tread.
See also Fords; Profanity.
AUTHORS
AUTHORS
The following is a recipe for an author:
Take the usual number of fingers,
Add paper, manila or white,
A typewriter, plenty of postage
And something or other to write.
—Life.
Oscar Wilde, upon hearing one of Whistler's bon mots exclaimed: "Oh, Jimmy; I wish I had said that!" "Never mind, dear Oscar," was the rejoinder, "you will!"
THE AUTHOR—"Would you advise me to get out a small edition?"
THE PUBLISHER—"Yes, the smaller the better. The more scarce a book is at the end of four or five centuries the more money you realize from it."
AMBITIOUS AUTHOR—"Hurray! Five dollars for my latest story, 'The Call of the Lure!'"
FAST FRIEND—"Who from?"
AMBITIOUS AUTHOR—"The express company. They lost it."
A lady who had arranged an authors' reading at her house succeeded in persuading her reluctant husband to stay home that evening to assist in receiving the guests. He stood the entertainment as long as he could—three authors, to be exact—and then made an excuse that he was going to open the front door to let in some fresh air. In the hall he found one of the servants asleep on a settee.
"Wake up!" he commanded, shaking the fellow roughly. "What does this mean, your being asleep out here? You must have been listening at the keyhole."
An ambitious young man called upon a publisher and stated that he had decided to write a book.
"May I venture to inquire as to the nature of the book you propose to write?" asked the publisher, very politely.
"Oh," came in an offhand way from the aspirant to literary fame, "I think of doing something on the line of 'Les Miserables,' only livelier, you know."
"So you have had a long siege of nervous prostration?" we say to the haggard author. "What caused it? Overwork?"
"In a way, yes," he answers weakly. "I tried to do a novel with a Robert W. Chambers hero and a Mary E. Wilkins heroine."—Life.
Mark Twain at a dinner at the Authors' Club said: "Speaking of fresh eggs, I am reminded of the town of Squash. In my early lecturing days I went to Squash to lecture in Temperance Hall, arriving in the afternoon. The town seemed very poorly billed. I thought I'd find out if the people knew anything at all about what was in store for them. So I turned in at the general store. 'Good afternoon, friend,' I said to the general storekeeper. 'Any entertainment here tonight to help a stranger while away his evening?' The general storekeeper, who was sorting mackerels, straightened up, wiped his briny hands on his apron, and said: 'I expect there's goin' to be a lecture. I've been sellin' eggs all day."
An American friend of Edmond Rostand says that the great dramatist once told him of a curious encounter he had had with a local magistrate in a town not far from his own.
It appears that Rostand had been asked to register the birth of a friend's newly arrived son. The clerk at the registry office was an officious little chap, bent on carrying out the letter of the law. The following dialogue ensued:
"Your name, sir?"
"Edmond Rostand."
"Vocation?"
"Man of letters, and member of the French Academy."
"Very well, sir. You must sign your name. Can you write? If not, you may make a cross."—Howard Morse.
George W. Cable, the southern writer, was visiting a western city where he was invited to inspect the new free library. The librarian conducted the famous writer through the building until they finally reached the department of books devoted to fiction.
"We have all your books, Mr. Cable," proudly said the librarian. "You see there they are—all of them on the shelves there: not one missing."
And Mr. Cable's hearty laugh was not for the reason that the librarian thought!
Brief History of a Successful Author: From ink-pots to flesh-pots—R.R. Kirk.
"It took me nearly ten years to learn that I couldn't write stories."
"I suppose you gave it up then?"
"No, no. By that time I had a reputation."
"I dream my stories," said Hicks, the author.
"How you must dread going to bed!" exclaimed Cynicus.
The five-year-old son of James Oppenheim, author of "The Olympian," was recently asked what work he was going to do when he became a man. "Oh," Ralph replied, "I'm not going to work at all." "Well, what are you going to do, then?" he was asked. "Why," he said seriously, "I'm just going to write stories, like daddy."
William Dean Howells is the kindliest of critics, but now and then some popular novelist's conceit will cause him to bristle up a little.
"You know," said one, fishing for compliments, "I get richer and richer, but all the same I think my work is falling off. My new work is not so good as my old."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Mr. Howells. "You write just as well as you ever did. Your taste is improving, that's all."
James Oliver Curwood, a novelist, tells of a recent encounter with the law. The value of a short story he was writing depended upon a certain legal situation which he found difficult to manage. Going to a lawyer of his acquaintance he told him the plot and was shown a way to the desired end. "You've saved me just $100," he exclaimed, "for that's what I am going to get for this story."
A week later he received a bill from the lawyer as follows: "For literary advice, $100." He says he paid.
"Tried to skin me, that scribbler did!"
"What did he want?"
"Wanted to get out a book jointly, he to write the book and I to write the advertisements. I turned him down. I wasn't going to do all the literary work."
At a London dinner recently the conversation turned to the various methods of working employed by literary geniuses. Among the examples cited was that of a well-known poet, who, it is said, was wont to arouse his wife about four o'clock in the morning and exclaim, "Maria, get up; I've thought of a good word!" Whereupon the poet's obedient helpmate would crawl out of bed and make a note of the thought-of word.
About an hour later, like as not, a new inspiration would seize the bard, whereupon he would again arouse his wife, saying, "Maria, Maria, get up! I've thought of a better word!"
The company in general listened to the story with admiration, but a merry-eyed American girl remarked: "Well, if he'd been my husband I should have replied, 'Alpheus, get up yourself; I've thought of a bad word!'"
"There is probably no hell for authors in the next world—they suffer so much from critics and publishers in this."—Bovee.
A thought upon my forehead,
My hand up to my face;
I want to be an author,
An air of studied grace!
I want to be an author,
With genius on my brow;
I want to be an author,
And I want to be it now!
—Ella Hutchison Ellwanger.
That writer does the most, who gives his reader the most knowledge, and takes from him the least time.—C.C. Colton.
Habits of close attention, thinking heads,
Become more rare as dissipation spreads,
Till authors hear at length one general cry
Tickle and entertain us, or we die!
—Cowper.
The author who speaks about his own books is almost as bad as a mother who talks about her own children.—Disraeli.
The following is a recipe for an author:
Take the usual number of fingers,
Add paper, manila or white,
A typewriter, plenty of postage
And something or other to write.
—Life.
Oscar Wilde, upon hearing one of Whistler's bon mots exclaimed: "Oh, Jimmy; I wish I had said that!" "Never mind, dear Oscar," was the rejoinder, "you will!"
THE AUTHOR—"Would you advise me to get out a small edition?"
THE PUBLISHER—"Yes, the smaller the better. The more scarce a book is at the end of four or five centuries the more money you realize from it."
AMBITIOUS AUTHOR—"Hurray! Five dollars for my latest story, 'The Call of the Lure!'"
FAST FRIEND—"Who from?"
AMBITIOUS AUTHOR—"The express company. They lost it."
A lady who had arranged an authors' reading at her house succeeded in persuading her reluctant husband to stay home that evening to assist in receiving the guests. He stood the entertainment as long as he could—three authors, to be exact—and then made an excuse that he was going to open the front door to let in some fresh air. In the hall he found one of the servants asleep on a settee.
"Wake up!" he commanded, shaking the fellow roughly. "What does this mean, your being asleep out here? You must have been listening at the keyhole."
An ambitious young man called upon a publisher and stated that he had decided to write a book.
"May I venture to inquire as to the nature of the book you propose to write?" asked the publisher, very politely.
"Oh," came in an offhand way from the aspirant to literary fame, "I think of doing something on the line of 'Les Miserables,' only livelier, you know."
"So you have had a long siege of nervous prostration?" we say to the haggard author. "What caused it? Overwork?"
"In a way, yes," he answers weakly. "I tried to do a novel with a Robert W. Chambers hero and a Mary E. Wilkins heroine."—Life.
Mark Twain at a dinner at the Authors' Club said: "Speaking of fresh eggs, I am reminded of the town of Squash. In my early lecturing days I went to Squash to lecture in Temperance Hall, arriving in the afternoon. The town seemed very poorly billed. I thought I'd find out if the people knew anything at all about what was in store for them. So I turned in at the general store. 'Good afternoon, friend,' I said to the general storekeeper. 'Any entertainment here tonight to help a stranger while away his evening?' The general storekeeper, who was sorting mackerels, straightened up, wiped his briny hands on his apron, and said: 'I expect there's goin' to be a lecture. I've been sellin' eggs all day."
An American friend of Edmond Rostand says that the great dramatist once told him of a curious encounter he had had with a local magistrate in a town not far from his own.
It appears that Rostand had been asked to register the birth of a friend's newly arrived son. The clerk at the registry office was an officious little chap, bent on carrying out the letter of the law. The following dialogue ensued:
"Your name, sir?"
"Edmond Rostand."
"Vocation?"
"Man of letters, and member of the French Academy."
"Very well, sir. You must sign your name. Can you write? If not, you may make a cross."—Howard Morse.
George W. Cable, the southern writer, was visiting a western city where he was invited to inspect the new free library. The librarian conducted the famous writer through the building until they finally reached the department of books devoted to fiction.
"We have all your books, Mr. Cable," proudly said the librarian. "You see there they are—all of them on the shelves there: not one missing."
And Mr. Cable's hearty laugh was not for the reason that the librarian thought!
Brief History of a Successful Author: From ink-pots to flesh-pots—R.R. Kirk.
"It took me nearly ten years to learn that I couldn't write stories."
"I suppose you gave it up then?"
"No, no. By that time I had a reputation."
"I dream my stories," said Hicks, the author.
"How you must dread going to bed!" exclaimed Cynicus.
The five-year-old son of James Oppenheim, author of "The Olympian," was recently asked what work he was going to do when he became a man. "Oh," Ralph replied, "I'm not going to work at all." "Well, what are you going to do, then?" he was asked. "Why," he said seriously, "I'm just going to write stories, like daddy."
William Dean Howells is the kindliest of critics, but now and then some popular novelist's conceit will cause him to bristle up a little.
"You know," said one, fishing for compliments, "I get richer and richer, but all the same I think my work is falling off. My new work is not so good as my old."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Mr. Howells. "You write just as well as you ever did. Your taste is improving, that's all."
James Oliver Curwood, a novelist, tells of a recent encounter with the law. The value of a short story he was writing depended upon a certain legal situation which he found difficult to manage. Going to a lawyer of his acquaintance he told him the plot and was shown a way to the desired end. "You've saved me just $100," he exclaimed, "for that's what I am going to get for this story."
A week later he received a bill from the lawyer as follows: "For literary advice, $100." He says he paid.
"Tried to skin me, that scribbler did!"
"What did he want?"
"Wanted to get out a book jointly, he to write the book and I to write the advertisements. I turned him down. I wasn't going to do all the literary work."
At a London dinner recently the conversation turned to the various methods of working employed by literary geniuses. Among the examples cited was that of a well-known poet, who, it is said, was wont to arouse his wife about four o'clock in the morning and exclaim, "Maria, get up; I've thought of a good word!" Whereupon the poet's obedient helpmate would crawl out of bed and make a note of the thought-of word.
About an hour later, like as not, a new inspiration would seize the bard, whereupon he would again arouse his wife, saying, "Maria, Maria, get up! I've thought of a better word!"
The company in general listened to the story with admiration, but a merry-eyed American girl remarked: "Well, if he'd been my husband I should have replied, 'Alpheus, get up yourself; I've thought of a bad word!'"
"There is probably no hell for authors in the next world—they suffer so much from critics and publishers in this."—Bovee.
A thought upon my forehead,
My hand up to my face;
I want to be an author,
An air of studied grace!
I want to be an author,
With genius on my brow;
I want to be an author,
And I want to be it now!
—Ella Hutchison Ellwanger.
That writer does the most, who gives his reader the most knowledge, and takes from him the least time.—C.C. Colton.
Habits of close attention, thinking heads,
Become more rare as dissipation spreads,
Till authors hear at length one general cry
Tickle and entertain us, or we die!
—Cowper.
The author who speaks about his own books is almost as bad as a mother who talks about her own children.—Disraeli.
ATHLETES AND ATTENTION
ATHLETES
The caller's eye had caught the photograph of Tommie Billups, standing on the desk of Mr. Billups.
"That your boy, Billups?" he asked.
"Yes," said Billups, "he's a sophomore up at Binkton College."
"Looks intellectual rather than athletic," said the caller.
"Oh, he's an athlete all right," said Billups. "When it comes to running up accounts, and jumping his board-bill, and lifting his voice, and throwing a thirty-two pound bluff, there isn't a gladiator in creation that can give my boy Tommie any kind of a handicap. He's just written for an extra check."
"And as a proud father you are sending it, I don't doubt," smiled the caller.
"Yes," grinned Billups; "I am sending him a rain-check I got at the hall-game yesterday. As an athlete, he'll appreciate its value."—J.K.B.
ATTENTION
The supervisor of a school was trying to prove that children are lacking in observation.
To the children he said, "Now, children, tell me a number to put on the board."
Some child said, "Thirty-six." The supervisor wrote sixty-three.
He asked for another number, and seventy-six was given. He wrote sixty-seven.
When a third number was asked, a child who apparently had paid no attention called out:
"Theventy-theven. Change that you thucker!"
The caller's eye had caught the photograph of Tommie Billups, standing on the desk of Mr. Billups.
"That your boy, Billups?" he asked.
"Yes," said Billups, "he's a sophomore up at Binkton College."
"Looks intellectual rather than athletic," said the caller.
"Oh, he's an athlete all right," said Billups. "When it comes to running up accounts, and jumping his board-bill, and lifting his voice, and throwing a thirty-two pound bluff, there isn't a gladiator in creation that can give my boy Tommie any kind of a handicap. He's just written for an extra check."
"And as a proud father you are sending it, I don't doubt," smiled the caller.
"Yes," grinned Billups; "I am sending him a rain-check I got at the hall-game yesterday. As an athlete, he'll appreciate its value."—J.K.B.
ATTENTION
The supervisor of a school was trying to prove that children are lacking in observation.
To the children he said, "Now, children, tell me a number to put on the board."
Some child said, "Thirty-six." The supervisor wrote sixty-three.
He asked for another number, and seventy-six was given. He wrote sixty-seven.
When a third number was asked, a child who apparently had paid no attention called out:
"Theventy-theven. Change that you thucker!"
ART AND ARTISTS
ART
There was an old sculptor named Phidias,
Whose knowledge of Art was invidious.
He carved Aphrodite
Without any nightie—
Which startled the purely fastidious.
—Gilbert K. Chesterton.
The friend had dropped in to see D'Auber, the great animal painter, put the finishing touches on his latest painting. He was mystified, however, when D'Auber took some raw meat and rubbed it vigorously over the painted rabbit in the foreground.
"Why on earth did you do that?" he asked.
"Why you see," explained D'Auber, "Mrs Millions is coming to see this picture today. When she sees her pet poodle smell that rabbit, and get excited over it, she'll buy it on the spot."
A young artist once persuaded Whistler to come and view his latest effort. The two stood before the canvas for some moments in silence. Finally the young man asked timidly, "Don't you think, sir, that this painting of mine is—well—er—tolerable?"
Whistler's eyes twinkled dangerously.
"What is your opinion of a tolerable egg?" he asked.
The amateur artist was painting sunset, red with blue streaks and green dots.
The old rustic, at a respectful distance, was watching.
"Ah," said the artist looking up suddenly, "perhaps to you, too, Nature has opened her sky picture page by page! Have you seen the lambent flame of dawn leaping across the livid east; the red-stained, sulphurous islets floating in the lake of fire in the west; the ragged clouds at midnight, black as a raven's wing, blotting out the shuddering moon?"
"No," replied the rustic, "not since I give up drink."
Art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life.—Jean Paul Richter.
Now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being both the servants of His providence. Art is the perfection of nature. Were the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for nature is the art of God.—Sir Thomas Browne.
ARTISTS
ARTIST—"I'd like to devote my last picture to a charitable purpose."
CRITIC—"Why not give it to an institution for the blind?"
"Wealth has its penalties." said the ready-made philosopher.
"Yes," replied Mr. Cumrox. "I'd rather be back at the dear old factory than learning to pronounce the names of the old masters in my picture-gallery."
CRITIC—"By George, old chap, when I look at one of your paintings I stand and wonder—"
ARTIST—"How I do it?"
CRITIC "No; why you do it."
He that seeks popularity in art closes the door on his own genius: as he must needs paint for other minds, and not for his own.—Mrs. Jameson.
There was an old sculptor named Phidias,
Whose knowledge of Art was invidious.
He carved Aphrodite
Without any nightie—
Which startled the purely fastidious.
—Gilbert K. Chesterton.
The friend had dropped in to see D'Auber, the great animal painter, put the finishing touches on his latest painting. He was mystified, however, when D'Auber took some raw meat and rubbed it vigorously over the painted rabbit in the foreground.
"Why on earth did you do that?" he asked.
"Why you see," explained D'Auber, "Mrs Millions is coming to see this picture today. When she sees her pet poodle smell that rabbit, and get excited over it, she'll buy it on the spot."
A young artist once persuaded Whistler to come and view his latest effort. The two stood before the canvas for some moments in silence. Finally the young man asked timidly, "Don't you think, sir, that this painting of mine is—well—er—tolerable?"
Whistler's eyes twinkled dangerously.
"What is your opinion of a tolerable egg?" he asked.
The amateur artist was painting sunset, red with blue streaks and green dots.
The old rustic, at a respectful distance, was watching.
"Ah," said the artist looking up suddenly, "perhaps to you, too, Nature has opened her sky picture page by page! Have you seen the lambent flame of dawn leaping across the livid east; the red-stained, sulphurous islets floating in the lake of fire in the west; the ragged clouds at midnight, black as a raven's wing, blotting out the shuddering moon?"
"No," replied the rustic, "not since I give up drink."
Art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life.—Jean Paul Richter.
Now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being both the servants of His providence. Art is the perfection of nature. Were the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for nature is the art of God.—Sir Thomas Browne.
ARTISTS
ARTIST—"I'd like to devote my last picture to a charitable purpose."
CRITIC—"Why not give it to an institution for the blind?"
"Wealth has its penalties." said the ready-made philosopher.
"Yes," replied Mr. Cumrox. "I'd rather be back at the dear old factory than learning to pronounce the names of the old masters in my picture-gallery."
CRITIC—"By George, old chap, when I look at one of your paintings I stand and wonder—"
ARTIST—"How I do it?"
CRITIC "No; why you do it."
He that seeks popularity in art closes the door on his own genius: as he must needs paint for other minds, and not for his own.—Mrs. Jameson.
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