Humour of the Week

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18552, 26 April 1930, Page 13 (Supplement)

Humour of the Week

Had Tried Them. Husband : “Did you get a maid from the registry office?” Wife: “No.” “Weren’t there any there?” “Dozens; but we had had them all.” The Cream of the Job. “Here, young man, you shouldn’t hit that boy when he’s down.” "Gwan! What d’yer think I got ’im down for.” What Indeed? “These rich people make me sick. What’s the use of having money if you don’t know how to enjoy it!” “Well, what’s the use of knowing how to enjoy it if you haven’t got it?” He Stayed. “I don’t care what you say, young man,” said the landlady, “you’re not leaving this house until your bill is paid.” “Ah. well,” remarked the other. “I suppose that I must make the best of it. What’s this town like at Easter?” Some Compensation. A small boy was discussing a sentence of imprisonment with his mother. He was evidently overawed by its severity. “Fourteen years is four years more than me, isn’t it, mum?” he said. “Yes, dear, you are only ten.” “I suppose he won’t get any holidays, will he, mum?” was his next remark. “No, d-ear.” There was a long pause, and then at length the boy gave a satisfied sigh as though some problem had been successfully solved. “Well, anyway, mum, he won’t have to work after church on Sunday.” A Reasonable Request. The strong man on holiday rode out on horseback to challenge a farmer whose great strength had gained him a reputation. He entered the farmyard, tied up his horse, and approached the farmer. “Hey,” he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, and have come a long way to see which is the better man.” Without answering the farmed seized the intruder, hurled him bodily into the road, and returned to his work. When the loser had recovered his breath, the farmer growled, “Have you anything more to say to me?” “No,” was the reply, “but perhaps you’ll be good enough to throw me my horse.” Getting in First. He had gone to his landlord with a serious complaint. “It’s about those people in the flat above me!” he stormed. “They won’t give me a minute’s peace. This morning at two o’clock they were jumping up and down and banging on the floor as hard as they could, I tell you, sir, I won’t put up with such behaviour! It’s an outrage!” The landlord looked sympathetic. “They woke you up, I presume?” The victim shook his head. “No; I hadn’t gone to bed.” “Ah, I see! You were working late?” “Yes. I was practising on my saxophone.” Forget the Rule. “Grammar,” observed Cassidy to his friend Casey, “is a most confusing thing. I never can remember whether to say ‘lt is I’ or ‘lt is me.’ ” “I can give you a good rule on that,” returned his friend. “Just say over to yourself this rhyme: * “If is I,” said the spider to the fly,’ and there you are.” A few days later the friend met Cassidy and asked whether the rule had been any help. “Surely, it would have but for wan thing,” replied Cassidy. “I couldn’t for me loife’s sake remember whether your rhyme was: ‘ “It is I,’ said the spider to the fly,’ or ‘ “It Is me,” said the spider to the flea’!” Solving the Problem. There was not a seat to be seen in the waiting-room, and after a last look round the elderly traveller strolled dejectedly out on to the platform. "Humph,” he muttered. “Got a good book and no place to read it.” Suddenly a happy thought struck him. He rushed back into the wait-ing-room where he had left his bag, grabbed it from the ground, and rushed precipitately back to the platform. The effect was electrical. There came a mighty scramble, and the expectant passengers all hurried outside. As soon as the last person left the waiting-room the elderly traveller selected the seat nearest the fire and buried himself in his novel.

True to Tradition. Six men from a shipwreck eventually arrived at a desert island. Two were Irish, two were Scotch, and two were English. They disembarked, and the two Irishmen began to fight; the two Scotchmen formed a Caledonian Society; but the two Englishmen did not speak to each other. They hadn’t been introduced! Putting It Neatly. They were talking rather confidentially in the club. “But surely,” said Wilson, “you and your wife are as one?” “Of course, I know we should be,” said Watson, the henpecked husband, “but we are not. As a matter of fact, we are ten.” “Ten!” replied Wilson. “How do you make that out?” “Well,” said the other,dropping his voice a little, “she’s the one and I’m the nought.” He Understood. The works clerk approached the foreman of the factory. “Any accident to report?” he said. “One,” replied the foreman, and handed over the report. It read: — “Date—April 2nd. Nature of accident—Badly crushed toe. How caused —Blow from hammer (accidental.) Remarks . . . .” “Why no remarks?” asked the clerk. “Well,” said the foreman, “seeing as ’ow you know Bill, and seeing as ’ow you know what crushed ’is toe, ain’t you got no imagination?” Very Careless. The portly gentleman rushed up to the park-keeper in a state of great agitation. “I say!” he shouted. “I’ve jufct lost five one-pound notes! I know I had them when I came into the park, but not they’re no longer in my pocket!” The park-keeper looked him up and down. Then he gave a contemptuous sniff. “Is that so?” he said. “Well, it just serves you right! You ought to ’ave read them notices at the entrance about bein’ careful not to drop bits o’ paper in the grounds!” Single or Married. The pale, nervous-looking man was applying for a job. “I think I shall be able to suit all your requirements, sir,” he said to the boss. The great man shook his head. “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to take you,” he replied. “You see, I’m wanting a single man.” A look of horror appeared on the other’s face. “B-but, good gracious.” he stammered, “when I came here yesterday I was told that you were looking for a married man!” “I’m sorry,” said the boss. “It must have been a mistake. The applicant stepped forward and clutched him by the arm. “Look here,” he gasped,“it’s all very well for you to talk like that—but what am I to do? You see, I went straight out and got married!” Worse than Ever. The boss was pacing up and down the office, a letter in his hands. It w'as quite apparent that he was not in the best of tempers. A knock came on the door. “Come in!” he roared. A frightened-looking typist entered. “You rang for me, sir?” she inquired. "I did!” thundered the great man. “Your spelling is abominable. You’ve gone and put ‘n-e-w-m-a-t-i-c’ for the word ‘pneumatic.’ I can’t let a thing like that pass.” The girl began to tremble more than ever. “I'm very sorry, sir,” she said, suddenly thinking of an excuse. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t help it. You see, the ‘k’ on my machine won’t work.”