Feebles—I'd like to be opened with prayer.—Exchange.
RILEY'S RYE PATCH.
Whitcomb Riley was looking over a fence on his farm at a field of rye, when a neighbor who was driving by stopped his horse and asked:
"Hullo, Mr. Riley, how's your rye doing?"
"Fine, fine," replied the poet.
"How much do you expect to clear to the acre?"
"Oh, about four gallons," answered Mr. Riley, soberly.—Success.
IN A SHOE STORE.
"Have you felt slippers, sir?" she said.
The boy clerk blushed and scratched his head.