A Negro Who Doesn't Like Chicago Manners.
ATES, an old negro, sought the Mayor of Chicago. "What can I do for you?" the mayor asked.
"Wall, sah, I doan' know 'bout dat, but I come yere to see ef I kain't git jestice somehow."
"What's the matter?"
"'Nuff de matter ter make er man pizen, dat's whut. I moved up yere from the South 'caze I didn't think I wuz enjoyin' all my rights down dar——"
"I see. They interfered with your right to vote."
"Oh, no, sah; da let me vote all I wanted ter. Nices' people 'bout dat I eber seed. Jes' let me stan' up an' vote right erlong, but den da didn't count my vote."
"And you wanted to come to a place where your vote counted?"
"Yes, sah."
"Well, what is the trouble?"
"'Leckshun troubles."
"Don't you believe your vote was counted?"
"Oh, yes, I know it was."
"Then what have you to complain of."
"W'y, sah, I hadn't mo'n voted 'fo' er blame p'liceman came up, he did, an' lammed me ober de head."
"What were you doing?"
"Nothin' er tall; jes' standin' dar."
"Didn't he tell you to move on?"
"Yes, sah, but whut bizness was it o' his'n? I wan't foolin' wid him."
"What did you say when he told you to move on?"
"Didn't say nothin'. Jis' sorter shuck my head, an' den he come er hittin' me wid dat stick. Dat ain't no way ter ack—no way ter do w'en er man is 'habin' hisse'f."
"I'm very sorry——"
"You ain't ha'f as sorry ez I is, sah. Jis' look at dis yer lump on my head. I'd ruther not hab my vote counted den ter pay so dear fur it. Ef da hatter hit me to make my vote count w'y, den, I'd ruther they would fling it outen de box. Dat's er mighty cuis way ter do business. Crack er man's skull ter make his vote count. Doan't want no more votes counted in dis town."
—Arkansaw Traveler.
A Pittsburgh doctor says he can diagnose ailments by examining a single hair of the patient. Two young men, as a joke, took him a hair from a bay horse. The doctor gravely wrote a prescription, and said his fee was $25, as the case was precarious. They were staggered, but paid the fee, and after they got out laughed all the way to the apothecary's. The latter took the prescription and read in amazement: "One bushel of oats, four quarts of water, stir well, and give three times a day, and turn the animal out to grass!" Then the jokers stopped laughing.
—Denver News.
Undertakers are gravely opposed to cremation.—Boston Gazette. Are they in urn est?
C. A. M.