“Ah, docthor,” said Pat, looking down upon the huge plaster with tearful eyes, “it sames to me it’s a dale of mustard for so little mate.”
“Don’t want to be an Angel.”—“I want to be an angel,” which has been so long shouted by millions of darling little Sunday school children, who hadn’t the remotest idea for what they had been wishing (?), and whose parents would not voluntarily consent to the premature transformation, if the children did, has received a check in the following:—
A little sprite, who had been so very sick that her life was despaired of, was told one morning by the doctor that she would now get well.
“O, I’m so glad, doctor!” she replied; “for I don’t want to die and go to heaben, and be an angel, and wear fedders, like a hen.”
Tooth Drawing.
A snobbish-appearing individual accosted a countryman in homespun with the following interrogation:—
“I say, ah, my fraand, are you sufficiently conversant with the topography of this neighborhood to direct me to the nearest disciple of Æsculapius, eh?”
“What?” exclaimed the astonished rustic.
“Can you familiarize me with the most direct course to a physician?”