TIT FARMER AND THE ARTIST.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume XIX, Issue 1093, 23 March 1911, Page 22

TIT FARMER AND THE ARTIST.

“ Well,” said Farmer Briggs to the artist, “how much will ’ee paint my farm with me standin’ at t’ door for?” “Oh, five guineas,” said the artist. “Done,” said the farmer. “Coom tomorrow.” In due course the painting was finished. But, alas! the careless artist forgot to paint the worthy farmer on the picture of his farm. “Yes; I like it,” said the farmer, “but where’s me lad —where’s me?” The error he had made flashed across the artist’s mind, but he tried to pass it off with a joke. “Oh,” he said, “you’ve gone inside to get my five guineas.” “Oh, have I?” said the nettled, old chap; “p’raps I’ll be coomin’ oot soon, and if I dew I’ll pay you! In the meantime we’ll hang it up and wait.” NEVER PAID ANYTHING. Mr Bilkins (fiercely): “I owe you a grudge, Mr Wilkins—a grudge, sir; remember that! ” Mr Wilkins (coolly): “Oh, that’s nothing! I shan’t be alarmed, for I never knew you to pay anything you owed!” THE EDITOR’S OFFER. “You put me in the ‘deaths’ column yesterday,” eclaimed an irate farmer to the editor of the “Punkville Clarion.” “Then you’re not dead?” said the editor. “Certainly not,” replied the farmer, “and I demand that you correct it at once.” “But the ‘Clarion’ never retracts, sir,” mused the editor; “I don’t see what I can do.” The farmer raved. “You must retract,” he yelled; “it means loss of business to me, to be thought dead even for a day.” “Tell you what we’ll do,” said the man of strict adherence, “we’ll put you in the ‘Births’ to-morrow. Goodday.” WANDERED FROM THE POINT. Bishop X. had officiated, and, though his discurse was most excellent in itself, it had no obvious connection with

the text. Professor Y. was asked his opinion of the Bishop’s sermon. “Dear old man!” he exclaimed. “It was truly apostolic. He took a text and then went everywhere preaching the Gospel.” THE LAST MAN. He had been making a night of it, but had forsaken his companions. He was acquainted with an undertaker named George, and got the crazy notion at three o’clock in the morning that he must see this particular man. Accordingly, he found George’s undertaking establishment, over which George had his sleeping apartments. The intoxicated young man rang and rang George’s bell and at last awoke him. The undertaker put his head out of the third-story window, expecting to find that his funeral services were required immediately. Instead he recognised his friend Frank. 'Well, Frank,” he exclaimed, crossly, “what do you want?” “I just wan’ tell you, George,” said Frank, “that you’re the last man in the world I wan’ to do business with.” BARRELS IN MO U RATING. Dr. Perceval, Bishop of Hereford, is a noted wit. One day he was passing through a town noted for its beer, and he observed many signs of brewing and also or mourning. “Why is that flag half-mast high?” he inquired. He was told that someone well known in the town was dead. “Ah, how sad,” he replied, “I observe that even the barrels are in tiers.” THINK IT OUT. A poet once said: “All men are liars,” Therefore he was a liar, Therefore what he said was not true, Therefore all men are not liars, Therefore he was not a liar. Therefore what he said was true, Therefore all men are liars, And so ad infinitum. IN 1920. “Say, papa, I’ve been out all the afternoon.” “And what wonderful thing did you see?” “I saw a horse.” HIS SECT. A clergyman had at a meeting been persistently annoyed by the interruptions of a pompous little man who showed great animosity against the Church. The clergyman in his speech made some remark about the numerous sects in London, whereupon the pompous little man interrupted once more, by calling out, “Sects, sir, and pray, sir, to what sect do you think I belong?” The clergyman eyed him in silence for a moment, and then remarked quietly, “Sir, judging by your behaviour, I should say the insect.” HE GOT A CERTIFICATE. In the recent examinations for chatfeurs’ licenses was this perfectly civil question : —■ “If you were going along the road and met a skittish horse, what would you do?” To which one candidate replied—our authority saw the examination paper—

“I would stop the car, then the engine, and then, if the, horse was still skittish, I would take the machine apart and hide it in the grass until he got safely by.”

THOSE SILLY QUESTIONS’ Farmer’s Wife (to motorist whose machine has struck a fence and thrown him 40ft. into the yard): “Did you have an accident?” Motorist (piclking himself up): "Bless you, no; that’s the way I always stop.” HOW, INDEED? Pat was one day boasting about his horsemanship, and to let his mates see how good he was at it he got on the back of an old nag. The horse began to kick and fling, and Pat was nearly thrown off, when a friend shouted out: — “Pat, can you not get off?” To which Pat replied, excitedly:— “How can a man get off when he can’t stay on?”

PAT’S BELIEF. An Irishman at a fair got poked in the eye with a stick and took proceedings against the offender Said the magistrate: “Come, now, you don’t really believe he meant to put your eye out?” “Faith, you’re right this time,” said Pat; “for I believe he tried to put it father in.’* A NATURAL MYSTERY. “Pa, if Methuselah was the oldest man, who was the oldest woman?” “Hush, my son! Not even the census man knows that.”

REFUSED! “No, sir,” roared the old man, as Smithers asked the hand of his daughter. “I have eyes for me to see that the hand you’re after is the hand that writes the cheques. Nobody shall ever marry my girl for her money.” “You wrong me, Colonel Bilkins,” returned Slithers. “I don’t give a hang for her money. All I want is the girl alone.” “Well, by ginger! I’ll see that you don’t get her alone,” retorted Bilkins, “if I have to hire every blessed chaperon from Maine to California. The man who says he don’t care a hang for her money is either a second Ananias, or a blank-ety-blank idiot.”