“Well then, Sidney, suppose you tell us what a stoic is.”
“A stoic is the boid wot brings the babies.”
But of all such yarns I believe I like best the tale of the transplanted Pole who had made a fortune by building cheap apartment-houses. He had just completed the erection of a flat-building near Riverside Drive, whereas theretofore all his operations had been confined to the more crowded down-town districts. A friend said to him:
“Meyer, that’s a mighty nice-looking flat-building you’ve just put up. Have you got a name for it yet?”
“Soitinly,” said the capitalist. “I’ve decided I should call it the Cloister Apartments.”
“Strikes me as a rather curious name. Why call it that?”
“Because,” said Meyer, “it’s cloister the subway, it’s cloister Central Park and its cloister the river.”
§ 256 An Abiding Delusion, Too
A prominent citizen of an Oregon town was an ardent believer in the cult of mental-healing. Wherever possible this gentleman, with the zeal of a devotee, preached his doctrine. One day on the main street he hailed an impressionable youth from the country.
“Billy,” he said, “how’s your daddy?”