"Yessah, I is one. But, Jedge, s'pose somebody'd call you a damn black rascal, wouldn't you hit 'em?"
"But I'm not one, am I?"
"Naw, sah, naw, sah, you ain't one; but s'pose somebody'd call you de kind o' rascal you is, what'd you do?"
"IT IS FORBIDDEN"
Early in the war J.B. adopted a French soldier and furnishes him with a monthly allowance of tobacco. Incidentally, he is also lubricating his rusty French by carrying on a correspondence with his "filleul de guerre" who writes him from the trenches, "somewhere in France."
In a recent letter, the soldier informed his American benefactor that "hier j'ai tué deux Boches. Ils sont allés à l'enfer." (Yesterday I killed two Boches. They went straight to hell.) The censor wrote between the lines, "Il est defendu de dire où est l'ennemi." (It is forbidden to tell where the enemy is!)
HER PRAYER
A visitor to a Glasgow working woman whose son was at the front was treated to a fluent harangue on the misdeeds of that "auld blackguard," the Kaiser. She ventured to suggest that we should love our enemies and pray for them.
"Oh, but I pray for him, too."
"What do you say?"