Anecdotes and Sketches

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 20, 19 May 1909, Page 71

Anecdotes and Sketches

A t-eg&l Matter. UNCLE MOKE, needing money, sold his pig to the wealthy lawyer, who had just bought the neighbouring plantation. After a time, needing more money, he stole the pig and resold it, this time to Judge Pickens, who lived “down the road a piece.” Soon afterward the two gentlemen met, and, upon comparing notes, suspected what had happened. They confronted Uncle Mose. The old darky cheerfully admitted his guilt. “Well,” demanded Judge Pickens, “what are you going to do about it's” “Blessed ef I know, Jedge,” replied Uncle Mose with a broad grin. “I’s no lawyer. I reckon I’ll have to let yo’ two gen’men settle it between yo’selves.” > + + The Professor’s Joke. A good story of President Roosevelt’s college days is now going the rounds of the daily papers of England. On one occasion he was called upon to recite an Old poem, beginning, "At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk lay dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power.” He only got as far as the third line, when he began to hesitate, and then stopped. Twice he repeated, “Greece; her knee,” and then stopped. The old ■professor beamed on him over his glasses, and then dryly remarked, “Greece her knee once more, Theodore. Perhaps she’U go then,”

A Sensation That Failed. News was worse than dull, and the editor, calling the hustling reporter to him, said: — 'T want you to write me a good story about the trials and discouragement of men who are looking for work in a big city. Get up early to-morrow, put on old clothes, and visit all the places that advertise for male help in the morning paper. Give an account of the number of applicants and the kind of men they are, and describe vividly the feelings of those who perhaps have had no breakfast and have walked miles because they have no money to ride, and then meet disappointment. Draw it good ami strong on the pathos. People like to read that sort of thing.” At noon the next day the reporter appeared at the ofliee crestfallen. “I’m afraid I can’t make anything out of that story,” he said to the editor. "What’s the trouble?” “I’ve got three jobs already, and a promise of two more.” ♦ ♦ Quick Dictation. "My dear,” said the business man to his wife, as he was starting for the ofliee, “don’t expect me home very early to-night, as 1 lutvc to dictate twentysix letters.” “All right,” was the response; “but I wish you wouldn't work so hard.” He left hra ofliee at the usual hour and went to the club and sat down at the card table with three others. “Just a moment, you fellows, before we deal the cards. I’ve got to keep my word with my wife. One of you must take down what I dictate: ‘A, b, e, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, 1, m, n, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v, w, x, y, z.’ There, those letters are off my mind.”

Streancus Fatalism. Commander Peary was talking, in New York, about the luck he would have in reaching the Pole with the Roosevelt. “They say you are a fatalist,” said a reporter. “They say that yon believe you arc fated to Sind the Pole before you die.” The explorer laughed. “If I am a fatalist,” he said, “I assure you my fatalism is of the working and strenuous kind —like that of Old Abe Cruger. “Old Abe lived in New England in the daye of Indian warfare. He was ft fatalist of a pronounced type; nevertheless, he would not venture forth without his blunderbuss. “One day he had an important errand, but the blunderbuss, when he came to get it, was missing from the rack made of antlers where it had always hung. Someone of his family had taken it. Abo sat down to wait till it was brought back. “But. Abe, I thought you were a fatalist?” said a friend. “ ‘So I am,’ the old man answered. “Then why bother about yonr blunderbuss?’ taunted the friend. 'You aro in no danger from the Indians, since you cannot possibly die till your time comes.’ “ ‘Yes,* said the old man. 'But suppose I was to meet an Indian, and his time had come. It wouldn't do for mo not to have any blunderbuss, would it?’” ♦ ♦ ♦ She Mixed the Names Un. Among the callers to the house of a charming old lady was a Airs. FarreL who after some years of widowhood, again married, this time becoming the wife of a Mr. Meggs. “ If you love us, mother,” said one of the daughters, when the newly married lady's card had been brought in one afternoon shortly after the completion of the honeymoon, “ don’t make the mistake of calling her Mrs. Farrell.’ The mother solemnly promised to commit no faux pas, and as she Went downstairs she was heard to repeat to herself, “Meggs—Meggs — Meggs—Megg»—not. Farrell.” At the contusion of the call, the old lady was met at the head of the stairs by the daughter, who at once cb-

served an ominous expression of despondency on the old lady's face. " Oh, mother,” she exclaimed, “ surely you didn’t ’ " No Clam,” replied the mother, emphatically, “ I didn’t. I was so careful to call her Mrs. Mcggs all the time.” “Well, what's the trouble, then?” "Oh, dear!” murmured the kindly old lady, as she sank into a chair, “it was awful of me, 1 know! When I greeted her I said, ' 1 am elad to see you, Mrs. Meggs. How is Mr. Fan-ell?’” A Tattle Mistake. Lady ion the Metropolitan Railway, London) —“Please, sir, will you help me get out at the next station?” Gentleman—“ Why, certainly ma’am.” Lady—“ You sec, sir, it’s this way. Being rather stout, I have to turn around and get out backward, and the porters always think 1 am getting in, so they push me back into the carriage and say, 'Hurry up, ma’am.’ I’ve passed four stations that way already.” ♦ ♦ ♦ Making Goad Progress. They were skating. "George,” she asked, as they rounded the bend,’ ‘is your watch correct?” “Yes,” replied George, with a merry laugh: "it is keeping better time since 1 put your picture inside the case.” “Oh, you flatterer! How could that be?” “W< 11, you see, when I placed' your picture inside the case 1 added another jewel I” And the wise eld moon man winked. ♦ Plcod, Ashes, and Groans. They passed a magnificent building during their travels. “That's a. fine house,” said Brown to Jones, “and yet I Cjxnnet bear to look at it.* "Why not?” asked Jones. “Why?” repeated Brown. "Because the owner built it out of blood, the aches, the groans of his fellow-men; out of the grief of children and <!io wails of women.” "Great. Scott!” exclaimed Jones; “the brute! What is he—a money lender?” “Oh, no, dear friend; he is a dentist I”