On one of his trips abroad Mr. Evarts landed at Liverpool. The steamer was proceeding slowly up the river to the wharf, and Mr. Evarts, after looking at the muddy waters of the Mersey, said to his companion, “Evidently the quality of mercy is not strained.”
Once, at breakfast at a friend’s, Phillips Brooks noticed the diminutive but amusingly dignified daughter of the house having constant trouble with the large fork that she was vainly trying to handle properly with her tiny fingers. In a spirit of kindness, mingled with mischief, the Bishop said:
“Why don’t you give up the fork, my dear, and use your fingers? You know, fingers were made before forks.”
Quick as a flash came the crushing retort: “Mine weren’t.”
Two stout old Germans were enjoying their pipes and placidly listening to the strains of the summer-garden orchestra. One of them in tipping his chair back stepped on a parlor match, which exploded with a bang.
“Dot vas not on de program,” he said, turning to his companion.
“Vat was not?”