THEIR ONLY TROUBLE.
"There's only one trouble about blowing bubbles, mamma," said little Conrad, the other day, "and that is that they always blow out."
An Irish laborer boarded a street-car, and handed to the conductor a rather dilapidated-looking coin in payment of his fare. The conductor looked at it critically, and handed it back.
"That's tin," he said.
"Shure, I thought it was foive," answered the Irishman, complacently, as he put the piece back in his pocket and produced a nickel.
The magazine containing Mrs. Reynolds's first story lay on the sitting-room table.
Her son, who was at an age to be seriously afflicted with the big head, took it up, and glanced over it rather contemptuously.
"Mamma," he said, "why don't you write for a first-class magazine? I see that this thing is entered through the mails as second-class matter."