WIT AND HUMOUR.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 16448, 31 May 1919, Page 4

WIT AND HUMOUR.

BNANIAS OUTDONE. “My dog always posts my letters,” said the second best story-teller at the club. “I just hand him the letter and say, ‘Here Rover!’ and he trots oft to the post at once. Yesterday when I gave him ono ho dropped it on the floor. I.took it np, and thinking there must bo something wrong, I weighed it, and found that it was insufficiently stamped.” “That reminds mo of a dog I once had named Carlo,” remarked the best story-teller. “Carlo always posted my letters, and one day when I gave him one. to like your Rover, he let it fall on 'the floor. I thought that perhaps' it was insufficiently stamped, but on weighing it I found it was all right. So I gave it to Carlo again, but again he dropped it on the floor. Convinced that there must be something wrong, I looked at the address, and found that I had inadvertently addressed the letter to ‘Mr. John Smith, Esq.’ ” THE DIAGNOSIS. ’ The big farm labourer was so queer that he felt obliged to visit a doctor. “What are the symptoms?” asked the doctor. “Oh, I feel sort o’ swimming, an’ hot an’ cold!” The doctor examined the man. “I don’t like your heart action,” he said, at length. “You have some trouble with angina pectoris.” “You’re partly right, sir,” said the man, “only that ain’t her name!” WOULD LIKE! TO KNOW. “Going Jar?” asked the chatty little man of the mam in the corner. “Oh, no, only to Scotland,” replied the other, who hated talking to strangers, and wished to nip this one in the bud. “I am a commercial traveller. My ago is forty-six. lam married. My name is Henry Bigfeet. I have a son nineteen. He is in the Eleventh Clampshires. My father died last July. He was on the Stock Exchange. My motlter is still living. I have a niece, with red hair. Our charlady’s mime is Mrs. Smuggs. Is there anything else?” The chatty little man smiled affably. “What oil do you use for your tongue?” he inquired slowly. MAKING THEM SORRY, There was once a band belonging to a certain locality that was jocularly spoken of as “the worst in seven different counties.” One day the leader of the band was approached by a man with the request that it should play at his cousin’s funeral. “Is it a military funeral?” asked the leader. “Not at all,” was the reply, “but it was my cousin’s express wish that your band should play at his funeral.” “Is that so?” said the leader, who was very surprised and flattered. “Yes,” said the other, “he said he wanted everybody in the place to bo sorry that ho died.”

NO NEARER, An argument; over the meaning of “reconstruction” had waxed fast and furious for a while between two dock labourers, when one of them happened to espy a man across tho way busily engaged in rebuilding a dilapidated wooden shed. “Wey,” he exclaimed with some emphasis, “yon man’s doin’ a bit ov reconstruction.” “Get away,” said tho other, “he’s doin’ a bit 'ov carpentry.” With that they decided to interview the/workman with a view to a settlement. “Excuse me, my man,” said one of the dockers, “but what are you doing?” Tho workman looked up, and after drying the perspiration from his brow, he angrily exclaimed: “Can’t you see, you blinkin’ idiots? I’m working!” INSULT TO INJURY. At tho military amateur pantomime, a certain gay young subaltern had brought the house down by working into the part of Widow Twankey alj. the odd mannerisms of his colonel. Next day tho matter came to the ears of the “old man,” and the subaltern was summoned to- his presence for explanations. “Now, sir,” snapped the colonel. “I hear you had the confounded impudenco’ to mimic me at the theatre last night while I was away. What have you to say for yourself?” “I am very sorry, sir, very sorry, indeed,” replied the culprit. “I can only tender my respectful apologies for having acted the fool!” ART—AND.ITS USES. Tho man, whose magnificent car stood in the roadway, approached the shabby-looking artist, who was painting for dear life, depicting on his canvas the sunset in all its flaming glory. Tho opulent bne stared at the picture, then said:

“I’ll give you a quid for that picture just as it is.” The artist flushed, and tried not to look too pleased, and as though he were used to dashing off little unfinished things and soiling them on the nail. “But why not wait until the picture is finished ”he asked. “I have nearly done.” “Can’t,” said the opulent one. “I need the canvas at once to mend my tyre!” A PIANOFORTE SOLO. “To-day I sold a piano for £3O. I would not have gone above 18 guineas for it before the^war.” —A saleroom manager in the Dady Chronicle. Once,- in the happy, warless days. The local shopmen sang the praise Of good pianos at a price .Of eighteen'guineas, with a nice Cheek action. To-day, the price-lists reach mo not, For Dives comes and buys the lot, But all the praises tradesmen sing Are centred in the same old thing— Cheque Action! Daily Chronicle. —Trevor. THE ORIGINAL LEAF. Betty came running to her grandmother holding a dry pressed leaf, obviously the relic of a day long passed by. “Oh, Granny,” she cried, breathlessly, “look what I found in the Bible! I’ll bet you anything it belonged to Eve!” Mrs. Flatbush : So he’s married a widow? Mr. Flatbush: Yes, he’s married to her, all right. Mrs. Flatbush ; Was it love at first sight for him? Mr. Flatbush: No; she saw him firrt.