We were chatting the other day about things sacred and profane, when I chanced in the course of some remarks to mention that when Gabriel blew his horn on the final resurrection morn a good many persons would be surprised at the company they kept.
"Humph," grunted Hobbyhead, "don't you believe that our friend Gabriel will be the only trumpet sounder at the grand round-up."
"Why don't you think he won't?" I asked.
"Because every self-made man will insist on blowing his own horn."
While we were taking a walk through the country we met a farmer driving a fine bull in to market.
Both of us commented on the fact that it had a scrubby tail, and when Hobbyhead insisted on addressing the man I knew he had conceived a bright thought.
"I suppose, my friend, you'll have to sell that beast wholesale," he said.
The owner came from his reverie.
"What fer?"
"Well," assured my solemn friend, nodding his head toward the scrubby tuft of hair, and pursing his lips, "well, you see you cant have him re-tailed."