ODDS AND ENDS.

Evening Star, Issue 4131, 24 May 1876, Page 3

ODDS AND ENDS.

Answer this, ye Mothers of Wellington—What is there in the constitution of a baby that prompts it to sleep all day in order to get a good square opportunity of bellowing the roof off at midnight 1

You Know How it is Yourself.— A lady correspondent, who assumes to know how boys ought to be trained, writes as follows:—“ Oh, mothers, hunt out the soft, tender, genial side of your boy’s nature.” Tom Squib says that was just what his mother used to do—with her old slipper. A Straight Answtr.—For a straightforward plea to the question of “ Guilty or not guilty,” commend us to the Missouri chap on trial for murder. “If your Honor please, I am guilty. I killed the man because he took my gal from me. She was about the only thing I had, an’ I didn’t want to live after she went, an’ I didn’t want him to live neither. An’ I should be much obliged to your Honor if you would hang me as soon as possible.” By the Acre.—The Salt Lake ‘ Tribune ’ is authority for the following, and it is strictly true, for newspapers only chronicle actual occurrences:— “You’re a Bishop, one of them Legislator fellows what’s puttin’ on airs at the City Hall 1 ” queried a footblack yesterday, as he surveyed two small mountains used for propelling what seemed to be a man. “Afore we make a bargain, sposen you go over to the Suvveyor-Genei’al’s office; he’ll triaclgulate them; then bring your field notes down here, and I’ll contract to shine ’em by the acre—ef you’ll agree to furnish the ladder.”

Sunday School Literature.—“ Oh, Harry,” said a four-year old damsel, “ don’t you wish you were a girl ? for ‘ hoys are made of puppy dogs’ tails and rats and snails,’ but ‘ girls are made of sugar and spice and every thing nice.’ Now, don’t you wish you were a girl?” she repeated in a most tantalising manner. Master Harry (aged five) seemed for a moment staggered and overwhelmed with shame at his inferiority, but he soon collected himself as his masculine sarcasm came to the rescue. “ Oh, pooh, that is not a bit true, Maria Sprague, I don’t believe a word of it; it is only--only— Tlmuday Thool readin’! ”