TALES TO TELL.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19814, 4 December 1919, Page 10

TALES TO TELL.

PESSIMISTIC. Mrs Jones’s faithful servant had 1 grown old in her service. After one j especially fatiguing .day, Hannah was ! "heard to complain “My old bones is j achin’to the very marrow.” “Never; mind, Hannah,” her mistress comfort- I ed, “ there is a good long rest coming j to all of as by and by, and you will j enjoy it.” “Don't you believe it!” ' Hannah objected. “ I shan't ho com- i tortably settled in heaven more than an hour before someone will say, 1 Como, Hannah, it’s time to hang out the stars 5 1” i GETTING AN OLD MAN. | During a, Saturday stroll in the conn- ] try a pedestrian came upon an anoicut rustic engaged in breaking atones. Drawing him into conversation, be asked tho fellow bow old he was. “ Oil, J. duuno,” was the reply. “ But I know 1 be a fearful age.” But you must have some idea how old you are.” “ No, 1 dunno; but T know I be a fearful age,” was the only estimate that could bo drawn trout him. “'All right; wo’l) try to get at it in another way,” said the pedestrian, bringing out his pencil and notebook. “Now, how old were you when you left school:”'' “1 bo nine, zur, when I finished schuliir.” “And what did vou do then?”

“ Well, I was hoy fur Farmer Giles fur fifteen year.” “And after that?” After that f. worked fur Squire Noakes fur seven-and-thirty year.” “ And what next?” “"Well, I was waggoner for Choker, tho earner, fur four-and-forty year.” And so on. and so forth, until tho hind fact was elicited that he had been engaged on breaking stones for a quarter of a century, ’1 lien the inquirer observed, with withering sarcasm :—- ‘ So you do not know bow old yon arc? Well, I 11 toll yon. You're three hundred ami seventy-eight years old on your own showing!”" " .1. dessay.” murmured the ancient yokel, with undisturbed serenity. “ .1 know I be a fearful age.” the limit. Ho strolled leisurely into one of those servo-me-quickiy-for-k m-ui-a-beastly-linrry-dou’t-you-kuow restaurants tho other day, and sat in a comer, like tho good little boy in the fable. He was poor but proud, and. signalling a waitress, he surreptitiously | showed her Ids work. lly wealth, amountj mg to iourpeiiee-hull'penny. and asked ; her to supply him with the beat posI slide dinner for the money, j Tire result was a hash of sausage , and mash. While busy making in- : quiries as to the health of the pig"’t-ba t i didn’t provide the pork, he found himself trying to manipulate a piece of wood that got wedged in his biting apparatus, and ho called tho waitress” “1 say, Miss,” he said, looking sadly

ivt the remainder of the meal, “T don’t mind {.he dog, but I certainly bar the kennel.” QUITE MAD. When a noil-known doctor, an enthusiast on phrenology, visited a Inna.tic asylum in Paris, he was shown round tho establishment by one of the inmates, who was quite rational in his talk. The doctor, therefore, felt his head, and remarked ; 1 find hero not a vestige of madness. What, brought yon into tlieasylum, as 1 can discover no trace of madnoss abontr you. and you seem to act and speak sensibly enough?” Said his guide; " Its not, a bit likely that you will detect any trace of lunacy in the head which you now see on my shoulders; for you must know that it is not my head at all. I only had it stuck on after I was guillotined during the .Revolution.” The doctor was satisfied. BEREAVEMENT. Au ignorant countryman came up to 1/ondon to see the British Museum. Unfortunately ho chose a close day foi his visit, and when he presented himself at the gate the policeman waved him away. “ Hub t must come in,” said the countryman ; ” T've got. a holiday on purpose.” “ No matter,” soil j the policeman, “ this is a closo day, anc the Museum is shut.” "’ But ain’t this public property?” asked the other ! “Yes,” admitted the policeman; but,” I he went on confidently, " one of the mummies died on Tuesday, and sure!3

don't begrudge us one cloy to bury him in? - ’ “ Oh, 1 sec." Mid the country man in a bushed voice. “In that case 1 won’t intrude," and he walked away quite contentedly. PRESENCE OF MINT). “ You chaps talk about nerve and keeping’ cool under tiro, hot I’ve, seen a liner bit of presence of mind here in old England than any of you men who have lived m the thick of things. 1 was motoring with a. friend, and a? he was driving through a village )k----losti control of the car. It dashed into tho post office, smashing through the plate-glass window, and" finished up by turning on ite -side and burying the postmaster. My friend picked himself up, advanced to the girl whe was standing behind the counter—oi what was lotv of it—took out n penny imd said; "Two ha’penny stamps, please, miss.’ - AS PERFORMED. The amateur dramatic society hat spent many anxious nights in pmctic< and rehearsal, and at length tile- grcai evening that to show their power arrived. One ot tlie amateurs had fount it inconvenient to attend, and his placi was taken by an understudy. Cut, a: he was allotted a part with oniy otn sentence, no hitch was anticipated. Lb was the headsman. Arrayed in nil the glory of blaoi tights and mask, he strode on to tin stage, and, folding Ids arms, exclaim ed: "My lord! my lord 1 I have be headed the maid!” “ Oil, you have have you?” returns the local newsagent, who was taking th part of the cruel king. “Well, then allow me to tell you that you’vo spoil the blessed show. You’ve done it ii i two acts too sooul” HALF A CROWN A WEEK. 1 am reminded of the contract be tween Sir Thomas Tipton’s cireum stances to-day and fifty yeans ago hj the .announcement that/ ho is detei mined to win the America Cup wit. .Shamrock 1V lie was glad to ge hall a crown a week in those carl days, and felt a millionaire when hi wages rose to 4s, His favourite story concerns the day when he opened his first grocery sho in Glasgow and slept under the conr ter. A customer entered a. rival’ shop and asked for a pound of butter. " heal cr '.nutation, sir? - ’ “ Whs was it yon sold me yesterday?” " Thr. tva.s the real.” “Then,” retorted th customer, " give me tho imitation.” .