“Sarah,” said Moritz one morning to his wife, “Sarah, offer me one hundred and fifty marks for my hops!”
Sarah:—“Well, I offer you one hundred and fifty marks for your hops.”
Moritz then went to the hop market where a dealer offered him one hundred marks for his crop.
“What,” cries Moritz, indignantly, “one hundred marks! May the lightning strike me, if I haven’t already been offered to-day one hundred and fifty marks.”
In the Laundry
Neighbor:—“What in the world is your husband doing in the laundry all morning?”
The Poet’s Wife (angrily):—“He is forever writing his poetry on his cuffs! Now he is hunting in the wash-boiler, for the fourth verse of his last poem.”
His Love for Lilacs
“My wife is attention personified! Some time ago I happened to mention that I loved all lilacs—and what do you suppose I saw, when my birthday came around?”