“I hope my little Tommy has taken to heart mama’s talk of last night about charity and usefulness,” said a fond mother. “How many acts of kindness has he done? How many hearts has my Tommy made grateful and glad?”
Her Tommy replied:
“I’ve done a lot of good, ma; I gave your new hat to a beggar woman, and I gave the cook’s shoes to a little girl in busted rubbers what I seen on the street, and I gave a poor, lame shoe-string seller pa’s black suit, the open front one that he hardly ever wears.”
Charles Francis Adams was escorting a literary friend about Boston. They were viewing the different objects of attraction and finally came to Bunker Hill. They stood looking at the splendid monument when
Adams remarked: “This is the place, sir, where Warren fell.”
“Ah!” replied the Englishman, evidently not very familiar with American history. “Was he seriously hurt by his fall?”
Mr. Adams looked at his friend. “Hurt!” said he. “He was killed, sir.”
“Ah, indeed,” the Englishman replied, still eying the monument and commencing to compute its height in his own mind. “Well, I should think he might have been—falling so far.”