LEARNING TO DRIVE TWO CHRISTMASES MOTOR MIRTH

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 72, 18 December 1928, Page 14 (Supplement)

LEARNING TO DRIVE TWO CHRISTMASES MOTOR MIRTH

“What do I do first?” “Turn on the ignition—like this.” “But the car doesn’t go I” “Hold your horses—l mean your wheel. Now step on the starter.” “Where is it?” “Right down there.” “Ooh! Did I break anything?” “Naw; that’s the engine going.” “But we’re standing still. Why doesn’t •” “Now step on the clutch. No! Not that! That’s the brake.” “What's the difference? They look alike.” "‘Say, will you keep quiet and listen to me? Now shift into first—like this.” “But if you pull that stick backward how can the car go forward?” “Cut out the chatter and release the emergency brake. No, keep one hand on the wheel. Watch me.” “Why doesn’t the car move?” “Oh, keep quiet! Now step on the accelerator and release your clutch slowly. For heaven’s sake, why don't you do as you’re told?” "What did I do?" “You merely stalled the engine. Now start it again.” "Let’s see; ;I push this thing, don't I?” “No, no, not that! That's the brake.” “Why, George, I distinctly remember you telling me it was the starter.”

“You don’t seem to be as fond of Charley Dawkins as you used to be.” "No, I admit that I don’t care for him at all any more. Sometimes it seems as if I just couldn’t wait until after Christmas to tell him so.”

By Elsie Cole. B’t’ spent our Christinas out of doors Upon the shining summer beach; The tide left sandy island-floors, Pink-golden, like a ripening peach. But Grannie spoke in wistful voice Of Christmas long and long ago, When little folk would most rejoice To find the morning white with snow. The sea was sleepy cornflower Hue, And, flecked with white-winged sailing craft; In shallows where the light shot through The sun-browned lathers splashed and laughed.

But Grannie told of Far-away, Of holly wreaths and fir-boughs' spice, Of parties where the hearths burned gay While window-panes were fringed with ice.

I lay and listened at her feet, My bare toes in the burning sand; I shut my eyes and saw the sweet, White winter of her motherland.

And all the blazing summer sun, While Grannie talked, seemed frost and snow; And Christmas on the beach was one With English Christmas long ago.

“Bertie,” said mother, sorrowfully, “every time you are naughty I get another grey hair.”

“My word!” replied Bertie; “you must' have been a terror. Look at grandpa!”

Motorist: “I clearly had the right of way when this man ran into me, and yet you say I was to blame.” Local Policeman: “You certainly were.” Motorist: “Why?”

Policeman: “Because his father is Mayor, his brother is Chief of Police, and I'm engaged to his sister.”

“Waiter.” he said, sitting down to dinner after gar, ging the car In a cowshed, “what are those specks In my soup?” “I dunno, sir; unless they’re those vitamines everyone is talking about!” He had, too, to wait for a very long time for the chicken he had requested, until finally he petulantly demanded: “Waiter, where is that chicken I ordered?” And after a visit into the obscure regions where various oddities are turned into a menu the water returned and said: "It shouldn’t be long now, sir. Cook hasn’t quite killed it yet, but she's given it a couple of nasty blows!” ♦ » » It was in the peaceful serenity of such a country inn, not far from where the village smithy might well have stood, that the landlord expounded to the thirsty motorist on the virtues of his cider. “Ay,” he said, “we make all our own cider. Thirty-one barrels this year,” and the patient owner of the dusty two-seater, sipping sadly at the watery stuff, cordially agreed. “Pity you didn't have another apple; you could have made another barrel.” » » * In the trees a soft wind whispered. A brook musically burbled from beneath the country hotel window. He fancifully gave the waiter an order that delighted his soul after many hot hours on a dusty highway; but after he had sampled what had been put before him he gently whispered : “Waiter, my order was for a spring chicken and your oldest wine. You have given me spring wine and your oldest chicken!” * * » An honest motorist had just hit a dog and had returned to settle his damages, if possible. He looked at the dog a moment and addressed the man with a gun. “Looks as if I’d killed your dog.” “Certainly looks that way.” “Very valuable dog?” “Not very.” “Will a pound be enough?” “Well —I think so.” “Sorry to have broken up your hunt,” said the motorist pleasantly, as he handed the owner a crisp new banknote. "I wasn't going hunting—jest going out in the woods to shoot the dog. ♦ “Did you marry that girl of yours or <lo you still cook your own breakfast ami mend your own clothes?” "Yes.” ♦ « • “1 am very careful: whenever I quarrel with my wife 1 send the children for a walk. "Dear little things. One can see they . get a lot of fresh air.” » • * Here is a first-class illustration of "insult added to injury.” Owing to a mistake in the loading of a pistol ' during tlie making of a moving picture, a bad accident occurred. As the unfortunate actor dropped with a bullet in him. the director shouted. "That's not rhe way to fall when you're shot, you poor sap 1”

A fund is being formed, it is understood in well-informed circles, to provide those courageous motorists with a substantial purse and illuminated address in recognition of their epochmaking resistance to a centuries-old burden. But to Scotland goes the singular honour of a national monument to one Angus, who demanded, with the determination of his race: “Say, landlord, how much for a bed ?” "Five shillings.” "Terrible dear. How much for breakfast?” “Three shillings.” “Ruination I How much to garage my ear?” “Garage is free.” “Ah, well, just book me garage an’ breakfast—and I’ll sleep in the ear, ye ken 1” The deed of a man like that lives after him ’ It would be inadequate to round off this dissertation without giving publicity to the motorist — Who told the inkeeper that the hotel should be called the “Prince of Wales” —liecause he had found three feathers in his feather bed ! Who demanded of the countrywaiter: "What is this you’ve brought me?” “It’s bean soup, sir,” “Yes, of course it’s been soup, but what is it now ?”

Who, when told by an angry manageress, on complaining, that he’d better board elsewhere, said that he had, and when she demanded “Had what?” bluntly repeated, “Better board elsewhere.”

Who, on hearing from the waiter that the tough-looking object on his plate was a blanquette of veal, courageously observed that It seemed to him more like a sheet of iron! Who, went told that he was eating spring chicken, sadly agreed and added: “Yes, you’re right. I’ve been chewing one of the springs for the last ten minutes.”