“My son by my first man fell dead of heart disease right where you stand. He was a doctor, and there’s two skeletons in that closet that belonged to him, and half a dozen skulls in that lower drawer.
“There, I guess you’ll be comfortable.
“Well, good night, and pleasant dreams.”
A woman suffrage lecturer brought down the house with the following argument: “I have no vote, but my groom has, but I am sure if I were to go to him and say, ‘John, will you exercise the franchise?’ he would reply, ‘Please, mum, which horse be that?’”
“Maude was afraid the girls wouldn’t notice her engagement ring.” “Did they?” “Did they? Six of them recognized it at once.”
Mr. George Broadhurst, author of the play, “The Man of the Hour,” is an Englishman, and recently made a visit to his native country. After having lived a week at one of the large hotels in London, he was surprised on the evening of his departure, although at a very late hour, to see an endless procession of waiters, maids, porters, and pages come forward with the expectant smile and empty hand. When each and all had been well bestowed, even boots and under-boots and then another boots, he dashed for the four-wheeler that was to carry him safely away.
Settling himself with a sigh of relief, he was about to be off when a page popped his head into the window and breathlessly exclaimed: