QUIPS AND CRANKS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 878, 28 December 1888, Page 7

QUIPS AND CRANKS.

A CLEVER TRICK OF MAGIC. There are many men whose names occupy space upon the lists of social outcasts commonly oalled ‘ tramps ’ who, had it not been for rum and a general antipathy to hard work, might have made their marks in this cold and cruel world. Such a one a few days since dropped into a liquor store near the New York entrance of the Brooklyn bridge. The place was crowded. This man inquired if the loungers would like to witness a nice little bit of legerdemain. The landlord was appealed to at first, and giving his consent the man continued. He placed three hats on the table and then requested tbe waiter to bring him three pieces of bread. Ho then said he could not proceed until he got three pieces of cheese. These were also produced, whereupon tbe magician proceeded to take one piece of bread and one of cheese in each hat. After an impressive incantation ho stated that he would eat the three pieces of bread and cheese, and then briDg them all under one bat. When he had consumed two pieces he declaied he could not prooeed unless he had a drink. A large foaming gIaES of lager of the sohooner type was furnished him and tho other piece soon disappeared. • Now, gentlemen, which hat must I bring it under !’ A bat was pointed out, and the fellow quiokly placed it on his head ancl left the store in a hurry, before his astonished auditors realized what a heap of informa, tion they had derived from tho little seance. —N. Y. Mail. An Omniscient Advertiser.—Everyone will sympathise with tbe lady who sends the following advertisement to the Standard :‘A lady of good family, without means, with a thorough knowledge of every, thing, would be grateful to anyone who would give her occupation, not particular as to what.’ Circumlocutory.—The Parson (who likes to question the boys now and then in a little elementary sclenoe) : * Now, can any of you boys tell me-—come, I’ll ask you, Donovan—what is salt?’ Irish Boy : ‘lv’ y’ plaze, sir—it’s—it’s—[after a desperate mental effort] it’B the stuff that—makes a p’taytor very nasty ’v ye don’t ate’t with’t ! —Punch.