TOO LATE.

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

TOO LATE.

Mildred, aged nine, announced to her father that her friend Grace was to give a party, to which Mildred had every reason to believe she would be invited. “And I’ve got to take her a present,” she added. “Present!” exclaimed the father. “If you can’t be invited tb parties without taking presents, you’d better stay at home.” The next day, regretting his hasty words to his unhappy-looking daughter, he said; “Mildred, I bought a couple of boxes of chocolates for you to take to Grace’s party.” “It’s too late, now, daddy,” said Mildred gloomily. “I scratched her face to-day so that she shouldn’t invite me.” A young man was taking his new girl out for a drive. On approaching a quiet country lane she asked, demurely; “Can you drive with one hand?” “Sure,” replied her companion, delightedly. “Then eat this with the other,” replied the girl, producing an orange. “Dearest adorable darling,” he said, dramatically sinking his knee into the Turkish carpet, “you are the light of my life, comparable in magnificent splendor and effulgence to that orb of supreme loveliness that illumines the heavens with its noctural radiance.” “Yes, I thought so,” she snapped, “just moonshine.” "Buy a nice aspidistra, lady?” “No, go away. We’re not musical.” Temporary Postman (returning with parcel): “I’ve been from end to end of that road and there’s no house called ‘Fragile.’ ”