There was a piece of cold pudding on the lunch table and mamma divided it between Willie and Elsie. Willie looked at his mother’s empty plate.
“Mamma,” he said, earnestly, “I can’t enjoy my pudding when you haven’t any. Take Elsie’s.”
“I wonder what makes so many letters go to the dead-letter office?”
“Why, I suppose it’s because the addresses are so perfectly killing.”
Do you know that my little dog is dead?
I suppose he either swallowed a tape-line and died by inches, or else went up the alley and died by the yard.
Oh, no, he crawled away up under the bed and died by the foot.