“Oh, the joke isn’t on heaven; it’s on you,” was the reply.
Another small friend of Mr. Riley jumped quickly into bed one cold night. His mother said:
“Johnny, haven’t you forgotten something?”
“No, mamma,” was the reply. “I’ve made up my mind not to say my prayers to-night or to-morrow night or the night after, and then if I have luck I won’t say them any more at all.”
My friend Frank Doubleday, a member of a publishing firm that all authors regard admiringly, would rather get a laugh on some one than get a record-breaking novel. He is a fine, tall, handsome fellow and like many another handsome man who is really manly, he is careless of his dress, looking more like a busy farmer than a successful publisher. Going through Greenwich Street one day, near the ferries and steamboat landings, his rural appearance and manner attracted the attention of one of the “bunco” or “green goods” gentry, who accosted him with:
“Why, Mr. Brown, I’m very glad to see you.”
“But my name isn’t Brown,” said Doubleday, in his most innocent manner.
“What? Aren’t you Mr. Brown, of Paterson?”
“No, my name is Marshall P. Wilder.”