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That thing you call a head is merely a mole placed on your shoulders to keep your backbone from unraveling.
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I was standing outside the Urban meat market in Robbinsdale the other day when a neighbor lady, carrying her baby, walked up to me. “If you’ll hold baby while I buy some meat I’ll treat you to a nice cool drink in the drug store,” she said to me.
I took the kidlets in my arms while mother did her shopping. I stood around for at least five minutes before the kindly lady finally completed her purchases.
“Thank you, Captain Billy,” she said, as she took her baby from me. “I suppose you’re ready for that drink now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I answered. “Really, Mrs. Smith, I’m not the least bit dry today.”
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We received a very interesting letter from Deacon Gifford’s son, John, the other day. Giff Junior went out to California to become a movie hero and at present has employment in Hollywood as a pilot in the Universal stables. He piles it here and there as he used to do in his father’s barn. We will give you Giff’s letter as we feel sure you will be interested in any word from our old friend John.