Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 August 1885 — HUMOR. [ARTICLE]

HUMOR.

Even a heavy-built man can be lighthearted.—Barbers’ Gazette. When the devil pays his debts does he sheol out?— Louisville CourierJournal. The mosquito always files his bill before he puts in his claim.— New York Journal. Strange to say, lacquer work keeps many people busy in Japan.— Boston Bulletin. Apples are the youth, new cider the middle age, and vinegar the old age of humanity.— Whitehall Times. “Papa, why do the little pigs get so much milk?” “Because wo want them to make hogs of themselves.” — Beacon. That was a very conscientious humor" ist who broke off an engagement because his girl had chestnut hair.— The Hatchet. “The first gray hair!” Ah, yes; what emotions the sight of it stirs up —especially when you happen to find it in the gravy. They’ve changed the word a little, And Shed’s now the name, But If you ie id a v icked Jife. You’ll catch Id just the same. —Merchant Traveler. They say the bustle is to be very pronounced again. Only now you must pronounce it “tournure.” — Oil City Derrick. The Italians believe that maternity robs a woman of her voice. This is a barren consolation to a man without children. We long, oh, Ave long for an heir.— St. Paul Herald. The Chinese have a proverb that every man who rules himself is a king. Royal blood is not scarce in this country if every woman who rules her husband is a queen. — Chicago Ledger. “Only one man in one thousand can whistle,” say a writer. It is different with boys. About one thousand boys in a hundred can whistle. And the Avorst of it is, they don’t conceal the fact from {he public.— Norristown Herald. “You are the only one I love,” said a young girl to her lover. “Sorry to hear it,” he replied. “Why?” “Nothing, only I Avould rather at the present time take my chances on a divorce than a breach of promise case.”— Carl Pretzel’s Weekly. “What are little boys made of, mamma?” asked a Brooklyn toddler. “Dust, my child.” “Dust, mamma?” “Yes, darling-.” “Well, I guess that’s what makes ’em like to muss in the ash barrels so much. Aint it, mamma?”— New York Journal. In Scotland the violin is regarded by many people as the devil’s instrument. No religious family will have a violin in the house. The great need of this country at the present time, it seems to us, is a little of the kind of religion they have in Scotland.— Boston Courier. Thirteen millions is what we pay annually for Postmasters and their clerks. With what eager pride and exultation must these figures be read by the hundreds who preside over the destinies of village postoffices at a princly salary of SJoO per annum— 'Texas Siftings. A Boston surgeon successfully amputated the ulcerated tail of a Bengal tigress. When asked where he got the skill and nerve necessary to perform so dangerous an operation, he said, “Oh, this is nothing! I used to extract teeth for my mother-in-law!”—New-man Independent. “You don’t drink?” “No, bit.” “Not even beer?” “No, sir; I never drink a drop of anything that can intoxicate.” “Never?” “Never.” “Then do you know what I’d do if I was in your fix?” “No. What?” “I’d get my nose enameled to prevent people from xvasting politeness on me?”— Chicago Ledger. THE FUNNY MAN. Over a joke that was cripple l and worn The F’unnv Man leanei, with a look forlorn. His garments were shabby, and Boiled, and patched. And baid was his head where he often scratched As he tried to evolve a chunk of wit. Or a verse or jest that would make »hit; * And he slowly said, aspic glance i about: “it's a chestnut old, but I’ll grind it out!” “A column of jokes is my daily t isk. And woo is the author I never ask; For source or credit I care not at all— I call them my own, though it takes some gall— And I twist them around, and change the names, And resort to a score of little games Till my qualms of conscience are put to rout. As day after day I grind the jokes out." The Funny Man paused, his pencil to whet. When the boss yelled in: "Ain’t they ready yet'r” And the F. M. turned, with a mocking grin. While a co d wind blew through his whiskers, thin, And these were the words he in turn did shont; “I'm grinding them oat! I’m grinding them outl” —Pittsburgh Chronicle .