She Had a Question to Ask
A certain prominent dry-goods merchant is also a Sunday-school superintendent. Not long since he devoted the last few moments of the weekly session to an impressive elucidation of the parable of the Prodigal Son, and afterward asked with due solemnity if any one of the “little gleaners” present desired to ask a question. Sissy Jones’s hand shot up.
“Very well,” he said, designating her with a benevolent finger and a bland smile, “what is it you would like to know, Cecilia?”
“Please, what’s the price of them little pink parasols in your show-window?”