Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 December 1884 — HUMOR. [ARTICLE]

HUMOR.

Walton’s “Life of Hooker.” Is this another name for le&ak Walton’s “Complete Angler?”— Punch. “Thebe’s nothing like leather,” but the bottom crust of the railway refresh-ment-room pie resembles it somewhat. A scientist asserts that a bee can only sting once in two minutes. We would respectfully submit that this is often enough. A young lady who was blamed for allowing her glove to be discovered in a young man’s pocket, stated that she had no hand in it. A baby bom during a terrible storm was named Cyclonia. Its father says the appellation is a misnomer; a cyclone doesn’t howl every night. Society in London is all disturbed by the question whether a lady should recognize a-gentleman while he is having his boots blacked on a street comer. Because a youngster can draw a pipe, he isn’t a draughtsman any more than he is a farmer, because he is engaged in sowing wild oats. —Carl Pretzel’s Weekly. “Can a man be hanged twice?” asks the New York Tribune. This maybe a mooted question; but some men deserve to be hanged twice- and each time fatally.— New York lHal. “There is nothing impossible to the determined spirit,” says a philospher. Evidently that philosopher never tried to reach up behind his shoulder to get hold of the end of a broken suspendfer. Look out for the girl who throwster whole soul into a pair of slippers—for the bachelor parson. It might not be uppermost in her mind, but we will suggest that perhaps heel take it better if she lets a shoemaker put the sole in. —Carl Pretzel’B Weekly. “Never eat and drink at the same time” is the advice given by a Munioh servant to fat people who wish to reduce their bulk. This appears to be an underhand blow aimed at one of the noblest of our American institutions—the barroom free lunch.— Boston Globe. If there is anything that will make a man cordially hate himself, it is when he takes a walk of about a mile to the postoffice to find that he has left his keys at home, and then on going home after them, to find on opening the box that the only thing in it is a card notifying him that his box-rent is due. “No, my friend,” remarked a solemnvisaged individual when invited to kiss the wine-cup; “I drink nothing but water. Water is the best drink ever given toman.” “Very true,” replied the other, watching the bubbles in his glass; “but isn’t it rather selfish for a man always to be wanting the best?” A New York man, who married a wife with a bad temper, and who lives in the ninth story of an apartment house, was heard to remark: “I used to believe that the read to perdition was downward, but I don’t think so any more. On the contrary, the higher up I go the nearer I get to the hot place.— Texas Siftings. “Are you fond of rowing, Miss Smithers ?” Miss Smithers is a Bqston girl, and the twain were out in a boat. “O, very fond of it, indeed. T think it is such lovely exercise.” “Have you rowed very much this season ?” “Yes,” Miss Smithers replied, with a little cultured cough behind her hand, “I have ridden a groat deal.”— New York Sun. “Do you keep this same—er—costume all through the play ?” asked a young man of a pretty ballet girl in red tights behind the scenes the other night. “Oh, no! In the next act lam entirely disguised. You wouldn’t recognize me.” „How do you alter your appearance ?” “I wear blue tights in that act.”— New York Graphic.

Hostess (to gentleman her husband has brought home to dinner) —“How well you speak English, Mr. —, —.” Mr. (not understanding)—“Yes; I ought to. ” Hostess—“ But you Speak remarkably well.” Mr. : “I ought to. I have lived here all my life. In fact, I was born in New York.” Hotsess—“Why, how strange! lam shre my husband told me that you were a Bohemian.” THE ACOBN AND THE BOV. A bright, thoughtful boy, one summer day Planted an acorn and went his way. Both grew as boys and acorns oan. Till one was a tree, the other a man. Now mark the reward: Along comes the man. And the tree shelters him, as an oak r tree' tytn. But why stays ho there In the moonlight dim? He stole a line horse, and was hung to a limb! —Boston Globe. LINES TO MY SPRING OVERCOAT. Thou fickle thing! Oh, I could smite thee with a tongue of brass, But words are dumb and so—bullet It pass! For thou art only false as other men, I hate thee now as T did love thee then. Early last spring. Why, false one, see! Thou once wast warm enough for any clfpie; And mark, how short ago was that sweet time — In August last, when sunstrokes filled the sky. And for the lack of other coat i wore * Thou smothered’st met And now? The breath Of chill November makes me wish thee warm; Dead leaves in shivering eddies ’round me swarm : Thou art as cold as frigid Greenland’s bhowb. And every one who sees thee laughs and knows I'll freeze to death. —Robert Burdette.