“Does this crosstown car take you down to the Bridge toward Brooklyn?” she demanded.
“Why, madam,” returned the policeman, “do you want to go to Brooklyn?”
“No, I don’t want to,” the woman replied, “but I have to.”
Walter Appleton Clark, whose artistic career was cut short by an untimely death, had a strong sense of humor. In going through a millionaire’s stables, where the floors and walls were of white tiles, drinking fountains of marble, mahogany mangers, silver trimmings, and so forth and so on, “Well,” said the millionaire proudly, “is there anything lacking?” “I can think of nothing,” said Clark, “except a sofa for each horse.”
Oliver Herford, equally famous as poet, illustrator, and brilliant wit, was entertaining four magazine editors at luncheon when the bell rang, and a maid entered with the mail.
“Oh,” said an editor, “an epistle.”
“No,” said Mr. Herford, tearing open the envelope, “not an epistle, a collect.”