THE HUMORIST.

Waipukurau Press, Issue 287, 25 July 1908, Page 2

THE HUMORIST.

Moneybag: “Iwonder what is meant by the * embarrassment of “riches’?” Poorun: “ The needy relation, very likely.”

He : “Do you think it would be foolish of me to marry a girl who jvas my inferior intellectually ? She : “ More than foolish —impossible.”

Reggie : “ You say she . only partially returned your affection ?” Charles: “Yes: and that’s what I’m grumbling about. She returned all the love-letters ; but kept all the jewellery.”

A. very little girl awoke about two o’clock the other morning and asked her mother to tell her a fairy tale. “ It’s too late, darling,” the mother replied. “ Daddy will be in shortly, and he’ll tell us one.”

“ You say then that this material is the latest fashion ? The very latest, madam. But will it fade in the sun?” “ Why, it has been lying in the window for two years, and look how well it has stood !”

District Visitor : “ And how is .the little girl to-day ?” Mrs Tuttle : “ Law, Miss, the doctor ’e examined her with his telescope an’ took her temper an’ all, an’ ’e said as how her utensils were out of order.”

“ You can’t imagine,” said the musical young woman, “how distressing it is when a singer realises that she has lost her voice.” “ Perhaps not,” replied the plain man, “ but I’ve got a fair idea how distressing it is when she doesn’t realise it.”

One day a colleague asked Uncle Joe Cannon, President of Congress, what, in his opinion, was the main difference between the days of his youth and the present time, “ Well,” answered Uncle Joe, reflectively, “ when I was a youngster, a young man was satisfied to paddle his own canoe, but nowadays everyone thinks he has a call to steer the ship of State.”

*“ Hey ! ” yelled the stevedore, “handle that gunpowder careful.” « Wat’s wrong wid it ?” demanded Finnegan and Flanagan, who had hold of it. “ Don’t you know,” replied the stevedore, “ that some of that same powder exploded last year an’ bio wed up ten men ? ” “ Shure that couldn’t happen now,” replied Finnegan, “ for there’s only two of us here.”

During a brief crossing from Calais to Dover, one of the passengers was so seriously disturbed that he was sure that his death was approaching. He was so melancholy in his firm assurance on the subject that another passenger said to him, half facetiously —“ Well, have you any wishes regarding your remains ? ” The sufferer regarded him languidly. “I don’t believe,” he said, faintly, “ that there’s going to be any remains.”

“ Young man ” said the farmer, “ 1 must say you’ve clone a heap o’ talking about yer family tree. Anybody would think you owned a whole timber-yard. Come out into the lane a minute.” The youth in golf clothes accompanied him. Passing by a weeping willow the farmer said —“ I want you to take partic’lar notice of this.” “ What for ? ” “ That’s our family tree. That’s what has brightened our ideals and stimmylated our energies. That has furnished switches for four or five generations of us.”

As the last train was about to go out, an old farmer rushed into an already overcrowded compartment. It so happened that an occupant —a dandified young man —was one« of his customers. By way of pleasantry the dude inquired what he had got in a small box under his arm. “ Oh,” said the farmer, “a box of chalk!” “I see,” the young man replied, with an air of wisdom on his countenance, and, looking round at his fellow passengers —“ Chalk for the milk, eh.” “Not exactly,” drawled the old chap, slowly, “ but I’ve done so much chalking up for milk at your house that I’ve had to buy another box! ”