Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 68, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 March 1910 — GOOD SHORT STORIES [ARTICLE]

GOOD SHORT STORIES

Said a nervous lady to an Austin lady, at whose house she was making a call: "Are you not afraid that some of your children will fall into that cistern in your yard?” “Oh, no,” was the complacent-reply; “anyhow, that’s not the cistern we get our drinking water from.” Mark Twain, in the course of a speech, talked of his pet aversion. “Christian Science,” he said, “reminds me of the apple cure for drunkenness. In Hannibal, in my boyhood, the apple cure was highly esteemed. I remember once hearing the Hannibal town drunkard expatiate on the apple cure. ‘You believe in it, then, do you, Hank?’ a listener asked. ‘Believe in it? How can I help believin’ in it?’ the drunkard said, excitedly. ‘Ain’t it cured me eight times?’ ” The consul in London of a Continental kingdom was informed by his-gov-ernment that one of his countrywomen, supposed to be living in Great Britain, had been left a million of money. After advertising without result he applied to the police, and a smart young detective was set to work. When a few weeks had gone by his chief asked him how he was going on. “I’ve found the lady, sir.” "Good! Where is she?” “At my place, I got married to her yesterday!" One day a sympathetic old German gentleman was leisurely strolling past one of the city fire houses, when he was moved by tears of the captain. Stopping to offer consolation, he said: “Say, for what you grief?” “Oh,” replied the captain, with a fresh gush of tears, “my poor father is dead. If he had lived just one more day he would have been chief of the whole fire department, just think.” “Do not so bad feel,” said the friendly old German, patting the felolw on the shoulder, "maybe he is a fire chief now.” During the French revolution a thief and a marquis jolted in a tumbril side by side through the wild streets of Paris, on the way to the guillotine, while a venerable priest tried to console their terrible last ride with moral reflections. “A bas la noblesse! Down with the aristocrats!” shouted the redcapped mob. Thereupon the thief rose in the cart and cried: “My friends, you deceive yourself. I am not an aristocrat. I am a thief.” The priest plucked him by the sleeve, saying reproachfully: "Sit down. This Is no time for vanity!"

On an occasion when Mr. Gladstone was announced to speak in Manchester, the hall was packed and the air was stifling. For some reason it was impossible to open the windows, which were very high, and one had to be broken. It was feared that the noise would startle the audience, and the mayor stepped forward to explain what was proposed. The audience, however, had not assembled to listen to the mayor and overwhelmed him with cries of “Gladstone,” “Gladstone!” At last the misconceived and infuriated official restored silence by shouting art the top of his lungs: “I’m not going to make a speech, I’ve got something to say!”