"What sort of labor is best paid in this country?" asked the English tourist.
"Field labor," answered the native American.
"Is that a fact?" queried the Englishman, who was inclined to be a bit skeptical.
"Sure," replied the other. "You ought to see the salaries our baseball players get."
This life's a game of chance, they say:
The saw's more sad than witty,
The public gathers 'round to play,
The trust controls the "kitty."
George—I can't understand why my girl shook me.
Harold—What was that you wrote to her the last time?
George—All that I said was, "My Dear Susie: The dog I promised you has just died. Hoping these few lines will find you the same. Yours, George."