Anecdotes and Sketches.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 23, 8 December 1909, Page 71

Anecdotes and Sketches.

Grave and Gay, Epigrammatic and Otlier.wise.

A New Exegesis. <j7lTn eight-year-old youngster rey I Gently came to her father after J church service one Sunday and astonished him by asking: -Daddy, have I any children?” The old man dropped his newspaper and regarded her in amazement. “What?” he demanded. “Have I any children?” doggedly repeated the child. “Well, I should hope not,” replied the father. “May I ask the reason of this startling question?” “Why, in church this morning,” explained’ the youngster, “the minister preached about children’s children, and 1 wondered if I had any.” <£ <s> <s> Handicapped. “Sir, I wish to marry your daughter,” faltered the young man. "You do,' eh ?” exclaimed the fond parent. “Well, I have been rather expecting this, and, to be thoroughly orthodox, I shall put a few questions to you. Do you drink?” “No, sir. I abhor liquor.” “You do, eli? Smoke?” “I never use tobacco in any form.” “Well, I didn’t suppose you ate it. Do you frequent the racecourse?” "I never saw a horse-race in my life, sir.” . . >. “Unr-in-ni. Play cards for money?” “Emphatically, no, sir!” “Well, young man, I must say you are heavily handicapped. My daughter is a thorough society girt, and I can’t for the life of me see what she is going to do with you. However, it’s her funeral.”

A New Kipling; Tale. Here as a story about Mr. Rudyard Kipling, which, I believe, has not teen published before. A certain American publisher purchased a tale from Mr. Kipling. He, the publisher, was of the “unco’ guid” type—a teetotaller to the verge of fanaticism —and looking through the story, he was shocked to come upon a passage where the hero had a glass of sherry. Greatly perturbed, he wrote to Mr. Kipling, pointing out the moral •harm that might result from reading of such a depraved person and action, and requesting Mr. Kipling to substitute some non-intoxicating beverage for the harmful and unnecessary sherry. “Oh, all right,” replied Mr. Kipling, “make it a glass of Blank’s Baby Food. I see he advertises largely in your magazine.” <?><s><s> The Man Without a Home. At a recent dinner in New York Joseph H. Choate, foryner Ambassador from ths United States to Great Britain, was speaking of the necessity for proper ambassadorial residences in foreign countries. “When I first went to England,” said Mr. Choate, “ I spent weeks and weeks looking for a house. . It wa s most arduous service in my country’s interest. I trailed all over the available sections of London, and while. I was at it a LonMon bobby 'arrested a man who was pursuing a most erratic and forlorn course out Hyde Park way.” “ 'Here, my man,’ said the bobby. ‘What are you doing? Why don’t you go home?’ - ‘•‘Home?’ replied .the man bitterly. ‘ I have, no home. I am the American Ambassador.’ ”

Dear at 1/4. , As most people will be aware, Harry Fragson, the popular Anglo-French vocalist, has a reputation for telling some remarkably funny stories. One of his most popular songs is that entitled “The Dear Little Girl with a Bandbox.” A gentleman heard him sing this song one night, and was immensely taken with it. The next morning lie called at a music-dealer’s in Bond-street and ordered a copy to be sent home for him. This was done, and with it came the bill—“To one dear little girl—l/4.” Unfortunately, this document fell into the hands of the gentleman’s wife, and, according to Mr. Fragson, it cost him two stalls at the music-hall and supper afterwards to convince her that everything was in order. <s><?>❖ A Rarity. This story is told of the great Brooklyn preacher: Some would-be wag sent Henry Ward Beecher a letter, containing on a sheet of paper only the words,

"April Fool.” Mr. Beecher opened it, and then a delighted smile beamed over his face as he exclaimed, "Well! I’ve often heard of a man writing a lettef and forgetting to sign it, but this is the first ease of a man .signing his name and forgetting to write tile letter.” <s> <i> ® Considerate. Four old Scotchmen, the remnant of a club formed .some, fifty.yeans ago. were ■seated around the table in the club room. It was 5 a.m. and Dougal Looked across at Donald and said in a thick sleepy voice: “ Donald, d’ye notice what an awful’ peculiar expression there is on Jock’s face?” “ A ve,” said Donald, “I notice that; he’s dead! He’s been dead these four hours.” “What! Dead? Why did ye no tell me ?” “ Ah, no—no —no,” said Donald, “ A’m no that kind o’ man to disturb a convivial evening.”