SHORT STORIES.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 2136, 5 June 1920, Page 1

SHORT STORIES.

Tommy had been invited out to tea. He wanted to have the afternoon off from school, hut his mother would not hear of it. As his bedtime was seven o’clock, he had rather a short visit, and as he was leaving his hostess said cordially:“I’m so sorry you’ve been able to stay such a little while, dear.” Tommy remembered his mother’s injunctions to be polite on all occasions, and answered sweetly:- — “Oh, it’s quite long enough, thank you.”

Townsfolk at times have their joke, or think they have it, at the expense of people who have their homes in the country; but sometimes the latter get their own back. The other day, at a comfortable little farm in the country, a young motor cyclist, who considers himself fairly smart, was admiring some line large eggs that he saw lying in a dish, and he said to the good lady: “What kind of a hen would it be who laid them?” “I don’t know what sort they would call it in your part of the country,” was the adroit reply, | “but about here they call il a duck.”

A melancholy-looking man entered, the establishment of a photographer. “I should like a picture of myself weeping beside my wife’s grave,” he explained.

“1 fear 1 have not the necessary accessories here,” said the photographer. , Then he added facetiously: “Couldn’t we arrange to have the portrait made at the grave itself?” “No,” said the man; “that’s in New York State. It would, be too expensive to go there, dust you (ix up some kind of grave here in the ship. I could wee)) on that. It’s no trouble for me to weep anywhere.”

An old retired Fife farmer bought a. nice house in a Fairly large village. Shortly afterwards he was called on every day or two by the local'agent for an insurance society,.and asked to insure his house against fire, But the old farmer would have none of it.

“No! mi!” he always met the agent’s advances with; “there’s nae fear o’ my hoose gaun on tire.’ The unexpected, however, happened one night, and when a few of Ihe neighbours rushed out to see what was (musing the blaze, instead of seeing the old man trying to put the lire out, they found him running up and down the street shouting;

“Whaur’s that insurance man uoo? Kin for him, somebody; dasht, it’s awfu’, y.can never got a body whan ye’re needin’ him!” , _7 They ;uet at a dance. He was tall and stalwart,'she — oh, so sweet. They jazzed, they one-hoppod, they two-whirled, they —well, they did’ just what everybody’s doing now.

After the seventh dance with his charmer, the young fellow stopped suddenly and glanced suspiciously round.

“It’s funny, Mabel,'’ he said. “See that glum-looking chap over there. He’s been following us about all the time. Who is he, and what’s lie after ”

“Who —that miserable, halfstarved fellow in the spotted tie?’’ remarked Mabel, casually. “Don't worry, about him; he’s only the fellow who paid for me, to come in.”

An improvident subaltern had got his affairs into such a state that his Colonel had to talk to him very seriously in the mess one night. “What you have to do,” said the “Old Man,' 1 impressively, “is to write to Cox’s (the Army bankers) and lay the whole matter frankly before them. Then they’ll tell you what to do. You’d better get your letter off at once.”

“I will, sir,” replied the penitent “one-pip.”

About two hours later, there being no sign of the young correspondent’s return, some of his friends made their way to where he was writing. They found him with dishevelled hair, and in front of him a sheet of regimental note-paper,|bu which he had written: “I say, Cox. . . , Only that, and nothing more. The following story concerning General Birdwood is told by an Australian soldier: ’Twas a glorious summer’s night, with a full moon overhead, and the Boehe somewhere in front, when Birdie lobbed into the gas-alert area per automobile. “This way, sir,” whispered the guide. - Without re.spouse Birdie followed. “Mind the shell-hole there on yer right, sir,” hoarsely whimpered the guide. , ( “Right! ,; whispered Birdie:

“Broken duekboard ’ere, sir,” again cautioned the guide; “keep to yer left.” “Right!” whispered Birdie. “Barb-wire ’ere,’ sir.” Not by word of reply did Birdie acknowledge the advice. However, presently he inquired in a less loud tone of voice than even the guide had troubled to use, “How far off is Fritz?” “Oh, ’bout three ki-lora-etcrs,” whisperingly replied the guide. “Well, what the dickens are you whispering for, man?” thundered Birdie. “I bin gassed, sir,” whispered the guide. *