Wilfred was sitting upon his father’s knee watching his mother arranging her hair.
“Papa hasn’t any Marcel waves like that,” said the father, laughingly.
Wilfred, looking up at his father’s bald pate, replied, “Nope; no waves; it’s all beach.”
The Prince of Wales is fond of telling a good story to his friends in connection with his visit to Ottawa some few years ago. The Prince—then Duke of York—stole away for a quiet bicycle spin early one morning, and in his ramblings met a farmer, heading marketward, his wagon temporarily stalled by the loss of a nut belonging to the whiffletree bolt. His Royal Highness, with his usual democratic kindness, assisted him in putting things right. On parting, the farmer expressed his rough thanks and asked if he might know the name of the person to whom he was indebted. The royal cyclist replied modestly: “I am the Duke of York. And may I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?” A broad, amused smile beamed from the farmer’s face as he said: “Me! Me! Why, I’m your uncle, the Czar of Russia!”
“All right on behind there?” called the conductor from the front of the car.
“Hold on,” cried a shrill voice. “Wait till I get my clothes on!”
The passengers craned their necks expectantly. A small boy was struggling to get a basket of laundry aboard.