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Cromwell Argus, Volume LXIV, Issue 3341, 19 November 1934, Page 7

“Have you ever noticed,” said Smith, “how fond people are of botanical metaphors, especially when they are dealing with a woman? Her cheeks are roses, her lips are cherry, her mouth is a rosebud, her complexion is like a peach, and her breath is fragrant as honeysuckle.” “You have forgotten one,” said the cynic. “What’s that?” asked Smith. “Why, man, her tongue,” said the cynic; “it’s a scarlet runner.”

Wife (shouting upstairs): “Your breakfast is ready. Are you going to get down to it?”

Husband (sleepily); “Fetch it up, darling. I’ll ‘get down to it’ up here.”

She; “I’ve found a needle.” He (fed up): “Well, find a haystack and we’ll have some fun.’”

Smith: “My wife thinks I’m a treasure.” Jones: “I wish mine did; she thinks I’m a treasury.”

For years the struggling artist had waited for this moment, and, now that his painting hung in the exhibition, he entered the hall in fear and trembling. How would the public receive his work? He saw a crowd before one picture. It was his own. Excitedly he dashed forward. Fighting his way through the crowd, he almost fell over the cause of their interest —a visitor who had fainted. Freddy: “Dad, what’s a family tie?’’ Dad; “Mine. Every time I want it, one of you boys is wearing it.” The old lady was at the doctor’s about her ears. “What’s the trouble with them?” asked the doctor. “Well, doctor, I have a singing in them. If you’ll just put your ears to mine you’ll perhaps hear it.”