A poor lady the other day hastened to the nursery and said to her little daughter:
"Minnie, what do you mean by shouting and screaming? Play quietly, like Tommy. See, he doesn't make a sound."
"Of course he doesn't," said the little girl. "That is our game. He is papa coming home late, and I am you."
The stranger advanced toward the door. Mrs. O'Toole stood in the doorway with a rough stick in her left hand and a frown on her brow.
"Good morning," said the stranger politely. "I'm looking for Mr. O'Toole."
"So'm I," said Mrs. O'Toole, shifting her club over to her other hand.
TIM—"Sarer Smith (you know 'er—Bill's missus), she throwed herself horf the end uv the wharf larst night."