“Well, now, tell us, what does it mean?”
“Vox populi, vox Dei,” quoted Mackin, solemnly, “as everybody knows, is French for ‘My God! why hast thou forsaken me?’”
“Give him the money,” said Crawford. “Darned if he don’t know after all!”
There is an old lady living in a small town in southern Pennsylvania who makes great efforts to keep abreast of the times. Her opportunities, however, are circumscribed, and she is sometimes compelled to resort to her imagination. She went to a church sociable lately, and as she entered the room one of the attendants said:
“Good evening, auntie. I am glad you came. We are going to have tableaux this evening.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the old lady; “I smelt ’em when I first came in.”
Fifer was a dog of friendly and social habits, but when he wandered into the lecture-tent at a well-known New Thought summer school and went to sleep between the chairs, he did a very foolish thing. A woman coming in poked him in the ribs with her parasol, startling him from his peaceful dreams, and he sprang upon her with a savage bite. A man grabbed him and he grabbed the man. The excitement was intense when an earnest little woman standing on a chair cried, “Some one hold the Thought!” “Hang the Thought!” shouted a man in the rear. “Some one hold the dog!”