Anecdotes and Sketches

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLI, Issue 9, 26 August 1908, Page 50

Anecdotes and Sketches

VICKY FORGETFUL. A minister’s wife, a doctor’s wife, and a eoinmercial traveller’s wife met one day recently, and were talking about the forgetfulness of their husbands. The minister’s wife thought her husband was the most forgetful man living, because lie would go to church and forget his notes, nnd no one could make out what he was trying to pie«en about. The doctor’s wife thought her husband was the most forgetful, for he would often start, out to perform an operation and forget his instruments, and therefore travel miles for nothing. ’•Well.” said the traveller's wife, “my husband beats that, lie came home the other day and patted me on the cheek and said, ‘I believe I have seen you before, little girl. What is your name?”’ 4-4-4-AT THE BARGAIN SALES. “Let me see some of your black kid gloves,” said the lady to the shopman. “These are not the latest style, are they?” she asked when the gloves were produced. “Yes, madam,” replied the shopman. “We have had them in stock only two days.” “I didn’t think they were, because the fashion papers says black kids have tan stitches and vice versa. I see the tan stitches, but not the vice versa.” The shopman explained that vice versa was French for seven buttons, so she bought three pairs. TAKE YOUR CHOICE. Have you ever almost run into Home one on the street, nnd then dodged from side to side for half a minute, vainly endeavouring to pass, while the other person by' some strange fatality' blocked your every- move by trying to pass you in the same way? Such was the recent experience of a young man. He and a strange young woman had been going through this performance for several seconds, when his unwilling vis-a-vis staggered him by saying: “Well, hurry up! Which is it to be—a waltz or a two-step?” 4-4-4-DI FFERENT “COLLECTIONS.’’ “My collection,” said the Numismatist proudly, “is worth about £2OO, and every coin is genuine.” “Aline,” Baid the minister, sadly, “is Worth about £7 a Sunday, and I have to take my chance on the coins being good!” -4 4 4WARM AND FEVERISH. Little four-year-old Lyndall B touched his mother’s arm with a stick he had heated in the stove. “What made you do that," she asked, “that was hot.” “Hot,” said he, “no ’tain’t either, see here,” and he clutched it tight in one Land, but quickly dropped it rubbing his hand on the seat of his trousers, “Gee,” says he, “it is kind of warm and feverish.” 4-4-4-‘THE SWELL “CHOWS” OF MAORI LAND. Maoriland knows not the most humble Chow of Australian climes. In the country where the white man has exalted the Maori out of all reason, the Ohow is a Personage. He is fat and bloated, wears a double collar, spats, and a waxed moustache. When he is a capitalist—and he often is—he grows bald like the white Patman, and deplores the fact that capital is being driven away from his grand young country by socialistic legislation. The Maoriland fruit Chow is far removed from the humble vegetable John of Australian back-gates. Ilehaslarg city shopfronts, and' makes big money. He talks

Star school English, attends the Presbyterian Church, figures on subscription lists, and in many other respects is dull enough to rank as a highly-respected citizen. I fully expect to see one Mayor of Auckland yet. Also, his name is William, Albert, George, possibly Percy or Horace — he looks like either — anything but plain John. One Queen-street (Auckland) ( how told me, the other day, that his doctor had “ ordered him away Io the seaside, to recuperate.” With a faint murmur of “ Help! ” I faded away from him. Fancy a Chow “recuperating.” 4-4-4-REFLECTIONS OF A CYNICAL DINNER GUEST. The first man who invited somebody to dine with him must surely have been terribly bored in his own house! Agreed! But what about the first person who accepted an invitation? The idea of people assembling in order to absorb food is certainly not a natural idea; the lower animals never invite each other to dinner —on the contrary! Where in the world do all the distin-guished-I-ooked butlers come from? Remember how few people there arc among all those you arc acquainted with who possess the attributes necessary in a successful serving-man? You -hare, nil the time during which the soup is on tho table, to rack your brains for something to say to your neighbour. If, by the middle of the fish, you have found nothing to nay, you must reconcile yourself to the knowledge that you have already been written down a dull blockhead. The last novel or the last play is your safety buoy, unless, as sometimes' happens, you have the misfortune to be next to a lady who has “no time to read” or “never goes to the theatre.” I’ray heaven in such a case that there Jias recently been a niee little catastrophe of sorts which will allow you to remark that “ft is terrible,” in order that- jour neighbour may retort, “Yes, truly awful!” However noisy the general conversation may be, it is sure to come to a dead stop at the precise moment when you decide to take advantage of the babel of tongues to say something very confidential to your neighbour! Tn spite of all their drawbacks, certain dinners might bo delightful were not the consciousness ever with you of tho big stain you made right in the middle of your shirt-front during the first course! When you go out to dinner you ought to be able to leave your stomach at liomc.—‘X. Irani Magazine.” 4 4- 4THOUGHTFUL MISS VINTON. The small boy’s mother was the only one who sat unmoved, while the small boy himself—most unwelcome addition to the informal afternoon tea—gleefully galloped around the circular table, daintily spread with silver and china, and towered over by a cut-glass lamp. “its a squircus pony!” shrilled the infant, joyously, as he tossed his flaxen locks and twinkled his besocked legs with ever-increasing speed. “Mercy! He’ll have the lamp over!” shivered a nervous young woman, as the human gyroscope stumbled over the edge of a rug, clawed at the table for support, then triumphantly continued circling. Conversation froze on pallid lips as they sat awaiting the inevitable crash. Only the voice of the small boy’s mother rippled along serenely. The nervous young woman could stand it no longer. In sheer despair she ventured, “Mrs. Archibald—er—pardon me—your dear little boy ” The lady addressed stared blankly, then grasped the situation. “Malcolm!” she said, sweetly. “Malcolm, dear, run around in the opposite direction, darling. Miss Vinton’s afraid you’ll make yourself giddy.”