George Ade, automobiling in Indiana, dined at a country hotel among a roomful of ministers.
The ministers, who were holding a convention in the town, were much amused when Mr. Ade’s identity was disclosed to them.
One of them said during dinner:
“How does a humorist of your stamp feel, sir, in such reverend company as this?”
“I feel,” said Mr. Ade promptly, “like a lion in a den of Daniels.”
It was a crowded tram car. Among those who could not find seats was a young lady. Close to where she stood an old man was sitting. He struggled as if to rise. The young woman cast a glance of scorn at one or two men hiding behind newspapers. “Please don’t get up,” she said to the old man, “I beg you won’t.” The conductor rang the bell and the car went on. The old man’s features worked convulsively and he mopped his face with his handkerchief. At the next stopping place he again tried to rise and again the young woman tried to stop him. “I would much rather stand,” she said, continuing to block his way. “I don’t care whether you would or not,” said the old man, crimson with fury, “I want to get out. You’ve made me come half a mile too far already. Here, you, stop the car.” But it was too late, the bell had already rung and he had to wait until the next stopping place was reached.
“I want some cigars for my husband for Christmas.”
“What kind, madam?”