You can’t expect a fellow
To have prayer meeting
Thoughts.
Little Johnnie rushed home from school, through the house and into the yard where he had a pen of pet rabbits. Picking one up he began to shake it violently, repeating with each shake and in a rather rough tone: “Two and two; two and two.”
Johnnie’s mother heard the noise. She ran to the window and yelled at him to stop abusing the rabbit. “Stop that, Johnnie,” she admonished. “You’ll kill poor bunny.”
“I don’t care if I do,” Johnnie replied. “Teacher told me a lie today. She said rabbits multiplied faster than anything and this one can’t even add.”
Smokehouse Poetry
HAVE you ever sighed for the good old days before the Great Drought? I have—many, many times. Oh! Gentle Readers, how my mouth has filled with juicy cotton at the thought of a nice, large, cooling glass of lager. You know, the kind we got before the war—the amber fluid that would almost make you side-slip into a tail spin and flop on your fusilage. In the September issue, I want you to read “Sherry,” and then eat an egg so as to complete the illusion.