O'Flanagan came home one night with a deep band of black crape around his hat.
"Why, Mike!" exclaimed his wife. "What are ye wearin' thot mournful thing for?"
"I'm wearin' it for yer first husband," replied Mike firmly. "I'm sorry he's dead."
"What a strangely interesting face your friend the poet has," gurgled the maiden of forty. "It seems to possess all the elements of happiness and sorrow, each struggling for supremacy."
"Yes, he looks to me like a man who was married and didn't know it," growled the Cynical Bachelor.
The not especially sweet-tempered young wife of a Kaslo B.C., man one day approached her lord concerning the matter of one hundred dollars or so.
"I'd like to let you have it, my dear," began the husband, "but the fact is I haven't that amount in the bank this morning—that is to say, I haven't that amount to spare, inasmuch as I must take up a note for two hundred dollars this afternoon."