The Family Circle

New Zealand Tablet, 9 August 1917, Page 45

The Family Circle

THE REASON WHY. In the little white house over yonder There's the greatest bustle and glee: The children are dressed in their very best, And the flags wave splendidly. A continuous stream of relations Are coming and going there, And grandmothers and grandpas They seem to be every where. At the window the little mother Nods and smiles at me, And I know by her face that what's taken place, Some wonderful thing must be. To an unexpected fortune Have all of them fallen heirs ? Am I, on my side, henceforth to abide Opposite millionaires? Or can it be it's Thanksgiving, Or Christmas, forgotten by me? Is that, I wonder, why over yonder There's so much bustle and glee? At last I call one of the children, Impatient to learn the truth, "Why, haven't you heard?" is the little, lad's word, "Our baby has cutted a tooth!" THE LITTLE PRINCE. Did you ever know a little boy who had sleds and bicycles and such things and yet who was not happy ? I have met a boy like that, and this story will tell you the secret about him.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a little prince who lived in a beautiful palace. The king, his father, loved him dearly, and gave him everything he could wish for, ponies and rowboats and servants to wait on him and amuse him; books and pictures and toys, and vet the little prince was not happy. One day a magician came to the palace and saw the unhappy little prince, and he said to the king: "I know how to make your little boy happy, but you must pay me my own price for telling you the secret."

"I want my son to be happy," said the king, "so I am willing to pay anything yon ask." Then the magician took the little boy into one of the private rooms of the palace, and he wrote with something white on a piece of paper, and gave it to him. "Here is a candle," said the magician, '"and when I am gone, hold it under this paper and read the words which will then appear." Then the magician went away, and would take no pay at all. The little prince held the blank paper over the candle, and words appeared in blue letters: "Do a kindness to some one every day." The little prince did so. That was the secret that made him the happiest boy in all the great kingdom. STORY OF THE PANSY. There is a good fable told about a king's garden in which all at once the trees and flowers began to pine and make complaint. The oak was sad because it could not yield flowers; the rosebud was sad because it could not bear fruit; the vine was sad because it had to cling to a wall and could cast no cool shadow. "We are not of the least use," said the oak and the vine. Then the king saw a little pansy which all this time

held up its glad, fresh face, while all the rest were sad. And the king said: “What makes you so fresh and glad, while all the rest pine and tire so sad?” “I thought,” said the pansy, “that you wanted me here because you planted me, and so I made up my mind that I would try to be the best little pansy that could be.”

We cannot all be wise and great. We cannot all occupy high positions in the world and do great things, but we can all-try to be good and do the very best we can in the position in which we have been placed. BREAKING IT TO THE MINISTER. The rector of a suburban church was in his study, hard at work on his sermon for the coming Sunday, when a visitor was announced. She was a big muscular woman, and when the minister had brought forward a chair she flopped into it, and opened up bluntly, as follows: "You're Mr. Jones, ain't you?" "I am."

"Maybe you'll remember marry in' a couple of strangers at your church a month ago." "What were the names?" "William Perkins and Elizabeth Jones," said the woman, "and I'm Elizabeth." "Are you indeed? I thought I remembered your face when you came in, but " "Yes," continued the visitor, "I'm her all right, an' I thought as how I ought to drop in an' let you know that William has escaped !" HER REASON. She was comely and a widow, and, moreover, she was Scotch. She mourned Mackintosh, her late husband, for eighteen months, and then from a crowd of suitors chose honest, homely Mackintyre for her second. "I'm no' guid enough for ye, dear!" he whispered. "What for did ye choose me oot o' sae mony?" "Ah, weel, ye see," laughed the pretty widow, "yer name's Mackintyre." "Yes, but " began the bewildered suitor.

“An’ ye ken,” finished the widow, “all my linen’s marked ‘ M-a-c-k !”

LORD RANDOLPH'S TONGUE-TWISTER. When the late Lord Randolph Churchill was in America he visited Philadelphia ; and, while collecting statistics relating to the State prisons of Pennsylvania, he was referred to the head of the State Prisons Board, Mr. Cadwallader Biddle. Before calling upon Mr. Riddle, however, Lord Randolph fell into the hands of some wags of the Union League Club. " You've got the name wrong," said one of these merry jesters: "it's not Cadwallader Biddle, but Bidcallader Waddle." "Don't mind what he says, Lord Randolph," exclaimed another; "the real name is Wadbillader Caddie." A third member took the ex-Chancellor of the Exchequer aside and imparted to him in confidence that he was being gulled on all sides. "The ,actual name," confided his false friend, "is Didbollader Widdle." And when Lord Randolph drove to the Prisons Board that afternoon he was so much upset that he stammered : "Will you take this card in to Mr. Bid—cad—wid—wad—did—dollarder, what's his name?— mean the Chief of the Board, but I forget his extraordinary nomenclatural combination."

THE CLANNISH SPIRIT. "Men certainly do hang together," said Brown. 'For instance, I have a friend who lives in a suburb where many wealthy folks live. Recently he had a motor accident at a lonely spot on the where he found it impossible to reach a telephone to notify his wife. »

“Now, it happened that he was happily married, very domesticated, and not accustomed to staying out at night. So at midnight his wife became very nervous. She dispatched the following telegram to five of her husband’s best friends in the. city: “ ‘Jack hasn’t come home. Am worried. Is he spending the night with you ?’

“Soon after this hex' husband arrived home and explained the cause of his delay. While he was talking a boy brought in five answers to her telegrams, all worded practically as follows ; “ ‘Yes, Jack is spending the night with me.’ ”

SMILE-RAISERS. "Were you carefully brought up, my boy?" asked the merchant of the applicant for a situation. "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. 1 came up in the lift," said the boy.

The Squire (in command): "What's that you say! Can't form fours ! Why not ?" Private: "Cos there's only three of us, sir." The Squire: "Well, then, confound you —form a triangle!" The logician: "Yus, yer can take it from one as thinks things out for hisself. The reason why they're a-knockin' off all these trains is becos they're runnin' short o' paper for time-tables. Employer (to office boy): "If anyone asks for me, I shall be back in half an hour." Patsy: "Yes, sorr; an' how soon will you be back if no wan asks for you?" "I say, Bill, is somebody poorly at your house? I heard a lot of running up and down the stairs during the night." "No; it was only the wife. She signed on for a tram conductor, and she was just having a bit of practice."

A young lady from the country got into a tram. The vehicle had not got far when the conductor said affably, "Your fare, miss." The lady blushed. The conductor repeated, "Your fare, miss," and the lady blushed more deeply. The conductor began to get riled. After a pause, he again repeated: "Miss, your fare." "Well," said the lady, "they do say I'm goodlooking at home, but I don't see why you want to say it out aloud!" A little work, a little play To keep lis going—and so, good day ! A little warmth, a little light Of love's bestowing—and so, good night ! A little fun to match the sorrow Of each day's growing—and so, good morrow ! A little trust that when we die We reap our sowing—and so, good-bye! I turn far away From the shadows of dreaming. O'er the long road before me My white star is gleaming. 1 And I turn me my face To my star shining o'er me, And the "high Death that waits On the long road before me. —Patrick Pearce.