"Don't care about any beer," says Billy, "but, Snyder, you may give me one of your best ciga—Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he! ah-h-h-ha! ha! ha! ha! Why—why—Snyder—who—who—ha-ha! ha! what's the matter with that nose?"
Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time; his face was purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared,—
"I've been out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never vas. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take yose nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit em! That's the kind of man vot I am!"
And Snyder was right.
Our Fat Contributor.
KEEPIN' THE DE'IL OOT.
He cam' to the door o' my heart the nicht Wat Birney kilt puir dog Speed for worritin' his Sou'-Downs.
An' the De'il was a bra knocker. "Dugald Moir," he ca'd, loud an' lang, "opit the door!"
"Nay," said I. "You maun stay oot."