American Humour.

Rodney and Otamatea Times, Waitemata and Kaipara Gazette, 23 August 1911, Page 7

American Humour.

Obviously Obvious. He was polling the precinct previous to election. This fact he tried to make plain to her. "Your husband's name, please?" he asked politely. She gave it. "And his politics?'' he suggested. "Is that any of your business?" she rejoined., "Well, it isn't pbsitively necessary that you answer that," he "though we would like to know. We'll find out, any way, before the election, so you needn't keep it secret." "I'd like to know how you're going to find out," she retorted, triumphantly. "John never tells anyone what his politics are! So there!" "Well, we'll find, out some way," he smiled, as he started down the walk. As he neared the gate a ferocious bulldog tore around the corner of the house and made for him. He got nimbly outside the gate, while the woman rapped out at the dog, with, "Here, Teddy! Come back here!" The dog- obeyed sullenly. "Thank you, ma'am, for your information," laughed the man at the gate, as he put down a capital "R" opposite her husband's name. "Thank you very much!" The woman, biting her lip in chagrin, went quickly into the house. The Real Need. In negro households, especially in communities where negroes form a large proportion of the population, it frequently happens that the woman is the head of the family, being not only the breadwinner, but also the disciplinarian, and in that capacity on occasions she regards her putative lord and master as subject to her will. This, at least, was the assumption of the colored wonian who was a party to a little scene enacted in the office of a justice of the peace.

A man had been arrested on the charge of beating and cruelly misusing his wife. After hearing the charge against the prisoner, the justice turned to the first witness.

"Madam," he said, "if this man were your husband, and had given you a beating, would you call in tht police ?"

The woman addressed, a veritable Amazon in size and aggressiveness, turned a smiling countenance towards the justice, and answered:

"No, Jedge. If he was mah husban', an' he treated me lak he did 'is wife, Ah wouldn't call no p'liceman. No, sah, Ah'd call de undertaker."

Where the Dtnger Lay. The Judge of the juvenile court, leaning forward in his chair, looked searchingly from the discreet and very ragged piccanniny before his desk to he ample and solicitous form of the culprit's mother. "Why do you send him to the railroad yards to pick up coal?" demanded His Honor. "You know it is against the law to send your child where he will be in jeopardy of his life."

" 'Deed, Jedge, I doesn't send 'im; I nebber 'as sent 'im, 'deed—"

Doesn't he bring home the coal?" interrupted the Judge, impatiently.

"But, Jedge, I whips 'im, Jedge, ebery time he brings it, I whips de little rascallion, till he cayn't set, 'deed, I does."

The careful disciplarian turned her broad shiny countenance reprovingly upon her undisturbed offspring, but kept a conciliatory eye for the Judge.

"You burn the coal he brings you, do you not?" persisted the Judge.

"Burns it—burns it—cose I burns it." "Why, Jedge, I has to git it out ob de way."

"Why don't you send him back with it?" His Honor smiled insinuatingly as he rasped out the question.

"Send Jim back, Jedge!" exclaimed the woman, throwing up her hands in a gesture of astonishment. "Send 'im back! W'y, Jedge, ain't yo' jest done been told me I didn't oughter send my chile to no sech dange'. some and jeopardous place "

A Simple Request. Backward, turn backward, oh, Time, in your flight! Make me a boy again, just for a night. Give me a so at the food that they fry, Let me make bold with a green apple pie. Then let me sink to my innocent rest, Free from all care as to what I digest ; Confident, even in moments of pain, That mustard or ginger will soothe me again. Fain would I seek with a juvenile zest, The cupboard instead of the medicine chest; And drink from the spring where the germs roam at will, Instead of from crystal, draughts foaming or still. Give me not wealth nor the badge of the proud, Nor a place on the platform, high over the crowd; But give me, oh, give me, my old appetite— Make me a boy again, just for a night! —"Washington Star."