HYMNLET TO SPRING.
(By The Puzzle Editor of "Life".) Sing hey! and sing, moreover, ho! Sing hi! and, at your option, lo! Sing anything you want to sing, For 'tis" *. Sing, birdlet in the treelet's top! Sing L©6, Sing Wan, Sing Goo, Sing
Hop! , \ Sing, workman ! Sing, itinerant \yam ! Sing, all o£ you, for has come.
* (Fill, out blank and mail.)
"One never hears a breath of scandal about her." "Why? HaWt Bhe any friends?"
The President (a few years henoe): Where's the army ? The Secretary of War: He's gone out rowing in the navy.
Vicar: All sinners, Mary, will be washed whiter than snow. Old Beggar Woman : Not thorn us truly repents, I 'opes, sir. . t
The Customer: I can't find my wife anywhere. What shall I do? Th© Shopwalker : Just start talking to our pretty assistant over there.
ftjmer Giles (after ten minutes of futile rubbing): Well, they call this a shaving stick, but oi'll be hanged if it be fetching my whiskers oft'!"
Golf Instructor: Oh, swing the olub, man! Swing it! Don't chop at the bait as if you were a butcher. Beginner: 'Confound it, th&t's just what I am.
Teaoher—Helen, oan you tell me the difference between "to like" and "to lovo"? Helen—Yos. I like-my mamma, but I love chocolate.
Little Boy—lt's hard, very hard. Mother—What's . hard, dear ? Little Boy —Why, Jimmy Jon.es next door spits down oa me, and it's so hard to epit up.
A contemporary states that /It is not known why St. Andrew became the patron saint of Scotland. One theory is Bhat he was the cheapest saint they could get.
Georprio—Ma. if tiio baby was to ©at tadpoles, would they give him a bass voioe like a frog? Mother—Good gracious, no! They'd kill him! Georgie —Well, they didn't!
"Can't you give me any proof that you really love me and want to marry me?" "Well, I found out that my engagement ring was cut glass and haven't ever said anything about it."
The Fiancee—You will give up smoking when wo are married, won't you, Felix? The Fiance—l don't smoke at all. The Fiancee^—Oh. what a shame 1
The Mistress: "The master has\been complaining very much of the cooking lately, Jane."
The Cook: "Well, 1 will you argue with 'irn, or,shall I?"
Mabel (to brothel, who has got the best of the cherries) —You really a-re a pig, John. Mother—lt's not very nice to call anyone a pig, darling. Mabel—All right, I won't. But the next time I see a pig I shall call it "John."
Constable—"Excuse me, sir, but you can't open your door with that; it's your cigarette!"
jovial One: "Good heavens, so it is. Then I must have smoked my latchkey!"
Blondine—l'd like to marry a movie star. Brunetta—Why? Blondine—Because they are such wonderful love-makers. Brunotta —Quite true, but moat of them do not seem to know what to do with it after it is made.
"I understand Mr. Peckton has taken up golf." "Yes, and it has mado a ..now man out of him." "The exercise?" "Not exactly. After years of subjeotion in tho homo, it would do your heart good to see tho way he worries a oaddy."
Shopkeeper—What did Mr. M'Murray say when you asked for the money? Errand Boy— -He said he wouW give me a jolly good hiding if I showed my face there' again. Shopkeeper—Well, go back and tell him that he can't frighten me with his threats of violence-
The professor had retired to his library after dinner. Presently, tho two youngest children camo rushing into the room. The Professor —Now, children, don't disturb me. What is it you want? The Children—We just- want, to say goodnight. The Professor —Well, suppose you wait till to-morrow morning for that.
"Home Cooking," reads a sign in one of those New York delicatessen stores that, are the haven and refuge of the tired apartment, dweller. "That's what, my husband likes," remarked one of theee- housewives as she was purchasing the family dinner while a reporter stood by.
Indignant, Wife: I wonder what you would have done if you'd lived when men were first compelled to earn their bread by the sweat of their brows?
Indolent Husband: I should have opened «. store and sold handkerohiefa.
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Bibliographic details
Evening Post, Volume CIV, Issue 73, 23 September 1922, Page 17
Word Count
710HYMNLET TO SPRING. Evening Post, Volume CIV, Issue 73, 23 September 1922, Page 17
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