MISCELLANEOUS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume V, Issue 48, 29 November 1890, Page 20

MISCELLANEOUS.

An Irish peasant, haunted by wicked fleas, said : ‘ Its not the hit they’ eat that I grudges them ; it’s the continual thrampling that fairly wears the life out of me.’ Cook (to Diogenes down cellar with a lantern): ‘ Hello, what are you doing down here ?’ Diogenes (disconsolately) : ‘ Looking for an honest gas meter. ’ Managing Editor : ‘Was our reporter the first one on the scene when the L. train was wrecked ?’ City Editor: ‘ Better still, he was the first man killed.’

The Usual Scarcity.—Elderly Female Relative (at the seaside) : ‘ For mercy’s sake, ’Mandy I What if any men should see you in that ’ere bathin’ suit !’ Lively Niece (savagely): ‘No such luck, auntie !’ ‘Johnny! Johnny!’ said the minister, as he met an urchin one Sunday afternoon, carrying a string of fish. ‘Do those belong to you?’ ‘ Ye-yes, sir; you see that’s what they got for chasing worms on Sunday. ‘ Business is so brisk and correspondence accumulates so, that I fear I shall be obliged to employ an amanuensis.’ Mrs Jones : ‘ Very well, my dear, get a manuensis if you must, but I decidedly object to your having a womanuensis in the office.’

A story is told of a colonel of volunteers. It is said that when the individual referred to first presented himself en militaire to his wife and little daughter, the latter, after gazing at him in wonder for a few minutes, turned to her mother, and exclaimed, ‘ Why, ma, that's not a real soldier—it’s pa !’ The Rector (to Irish plasterer on ladder pointing to a wall): ‘ That mortar must have been very bad.’ Pat (with a grin): ‘ Faix, ye can’t expict the likes o’ a good Roman cimint to stick to a Protestant chureh.’

A long-haired, red-nosed man stood on the City Hall steps last Sunday and screamed : ‘ Where are we drifting ?’ ‘lf I had a lighthouse like yours between my eyes,’ said a sailor-man in the crowd, * I’m dashed if I’d drift at all.’

The attachment of perfect friendship was exhibited (says Jerdan) by Coleman in the instance of a loving pair of cronies staggering home from the tavern, when one tumbled into the kennel and besought his comrade to help him up. ‘ Ah, no,’ hiccuped the true friend, ‘ I am too drunk to do that, but, my dear boy, I will lie down by you.’