Our Village Industrial Competition.—Husband (just home from the City). "My angel!—crying!—whatever's the matter?" Wife. "They've—awarded me—prize medal"—(sobbing)—"f' my sponge cake!" Husband (soothingly). "And I'm quite sure it deserv——" Wife (hysterically). "Oh—but—'t said—'twas—for the best specimen—o' concrete!"
"FOR THIS RELIEF——?"
"I'm sorry to hear your wife is suffering from her throat. I hope it's nothing serious?"
"No, I don't think so. The doctor's forbidden her to talk much. It'll trouble her a good deal, I expect, and she won't be herself for some time."