There was some delay at the bridge over the Schuylkill River, and the humorist's attention was attracted by the turbid, coffee-colored stream flowing underneath. He asked the colored porter:
"Don't you people get your drinking-water from this stream?"
"Yassir! Ain't got no yuther place to git it frum, 'cept th' Delaweah. Yassir!"
"I should think," said the humorist, "that you would be afraid to drink such water; especially as the seepage from that cemetery I see on the hill must drain directly into the river and pollute it."
"I reckon yo' all doan' know Philadelphy ve'y well, sah, aw yo'd know dat's Lau'el Hill Cemete'y!" said the son of Ham.
"Well, what of that?" asked Field.
"Dat wattah doan' hu't us Philaydelphians none, sah," replied the native son. "W'y, mos' all of de folkses bu'ied theah aw f'om ouah ve'y best fam'lies!"—Success.
MR. CRAWFORD'S ENDEAVOR.
"W.B. Yeats, the English poet, got off a good thing when he was at the Franklin Inn for lunch the other day," said the Literary Man. "Of course he's all for art for art's sake, but he told of a woman who once said to Marion Crawford, the novelist:
"'Have you ever written anything that will live after you have gone?'