Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 41, Number 96, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 August 1909 — HALF TRUE TALES OF THE STREET AND TOWN [ARTICLE]

HALF TRUE TALES OF THE STREET AND TOWN

Tit For Tat . An Irishman was sitting in a depot smoking when a woman came, and, sitting down beside him, remarked. "Sir,i if you were a gentleman, you would not smoke here.” "‘Mum,” he said, ‘‘if ye wuz a lady ye’d sit farther away.” Pretty soon the woman burst out 'again: “If you were my husband I d give you poison.” ' “Well, mum,” returned the Irishman, as he puffed away at his pipe, “if you wuz me wife I’d take it.” He Had Never Been To Sea Before. “Can you keep anything on your Stomach?” the ship doctor asked. “No sir”, he returned feebly, “nothing but my hand.” It’s a matter of common knowledge that “Bugs” Raymond, one of the pitchers on the staff of the Giants, hasn’t been one of our best little behavers all his life. The “Bug’s” liking for strong drink has almost become a proverb. Which inspired Bozeman Bulger, one of New York’s base ball writers, to tell this little story the other day. According to Mr. Bulger, the players were in the club house after the game and, as usual, were talking of everything but base ball. Some one started to talk about the manner in which money is squandered for the cheering stuff. "Hlteir~you,” said Tenny, who never tasted ’a <frop of liquor in his life. He persists in believing it is something like ipecac. “I think this liking for drink is mainly imagination. If whiskey and beer were free to all, not one man in a dozen would ever touch the stuff.”

“That’s right,” said Mathewson. “If beer ran in every river instead of water I don’t think the average man would want it. Every one would be blowing in his spare coin on mineral water.” Mr. Raymond thrust an interested bead out of the plunge. “What’s the chatter you’re spiling?” he asked. “I was just saying,” said Mathewson, “ that if beer ran in the rivers men wouldn’t bother it.” “Umph!” said Mr. Raymond. “Hump, hump! That may be so. But if beer ran in the rivers, I’ve a mighty strong notion that I’d be the first man to be drowned.” » —o— How the Preacher Butted lu. A clergyman was very anxious to introduce some hymn books into the church and arranged with the clerk that the latter was to give out the notice immediately after the sermon. The clerk, however, had a notice of his own with reference to the baptism of infants to give out. Accordingly, at the close of the sermon he arose and announced, “All those who have children whom they wishe baptised, please send in their names at once tq the clerk.” The clergyman, who was stone deaf, assumed that the clerk was giving out the hymn book

notice and immediately arose and said: “And I should say, for the benefit of those who have not any that they may be obtained at the vestry from three to four o’clock; the ordinary little ones at one shilling each, and special ones with red back at one shilling and four pence.” The fond husband was seeing his wife off with the children for their vacation in the country. As she got into the train, he said, “but my dear won’t you take some fiction to read?” “Oh, no!” she responded sweetly, “I shall depend upon your letters from home.” “According to this magazine,” said Mrs. Bifflngham, “sliced onions scattered about a room will absorb the odor of fresh paint.” “I guesß that’s right,” rejoined Bifflngham. “Likewise, also a broken neck will relive a man of catarrh.” According to Dr. Leo Meyer, one of his patients at the Manhattan hospital was an Irishman. He had been very ill for weeks. On the first day tbpt visitors were allowed, his friend ’ Callahan came to see him. Callahan, his tender heart torn by the thought of his friend's distress, had fortified himself thoroughly before entering the hospital. He came into the room where Patrick lay, white and wan. “Pat", says he, “Pat, my bhoyT Are ye feelin' a bit better, Patrick, dear.” Patrick opened one eye, and a beatific smile stole across his face. He feebly bent the finger that was outside the coverlid. “Come nearer,” he whispered. “No talk to me.” “Are ye feelin’ anny better T”

asked Callahan, bending over him solicitously. Patrick’s smile became ecstatic. • "What is it ye’re saying?” he askg& “I sas,” said Callahan, “are ye feelin’ better?” “How’s that?” asked Patrick. “How’s what?” roared Callahan. “Have ye gone nutty? I come in here to ask are yez feelin’ better, and all ye can do is to lay there on yer back and grin like a chessy-cat and whisper 'How’s that?’” * “Don’t be hard on me, Callahan,” said Patrick. “Sure, I been in the hospital for t’re weeks and in all that toime I’ve niver had a drink; and Calahan, me bhoy, your conversation is like a breath from heaven.” •—o Dorothy had received many admonitions about the bare of her clothes which were always unheeded. One night just as she was ready for bed her mother coming in found Dorothy’s clothes in a heap on the floor as usual. “Dorothy, you may say your prayers and then mother will have to punish you for not minding her about your clothes.” Having said this she stepped into the adjoining room and partially closed the door. In a few moments she heard Dorothy repeat “now I lay me” and after the Amen she heard this appeal: “And dear Lord, if ever you wanted to help a kid, now’s your chance.”

Every office in New York is barred against the subscription list fiend, and every office boy knows that it is as much as his job is worth to let one of them slip through the doors. But now and then they manage to get in by some specious pretext, and then it often happens that the victim gives up, not because he wants to, but beof them have the moral courage accause he is afraid to refuse. Not all credited to William Nelson Cromwell, the lawyer, in the story that is going about now. According to this tale, Mr. Cromwell was hard at work in his inner office, when the fiend stepped in. How he had managed to run the gauntlet of doorman, boys, clerks and stenographers passes comprehension. But there he was. “Good morning, Mr. Cromwell,” said he, with a sunny smile. Mr. Cromwell, his train of thought hopelessly derailed, his calculations scattered, looking up gruffly. “Do,” said he. The subscription fiend began his long-winded talk, winding on and on, and getting no nearer the point, Cromwell’s impatience rose to fever heat. “What-in-thunder-do-you-want ?” he demanded, angrily. “My dear Mr. Cromwell,” said the agent, soothingly, putting out one calming hand, and smiling more blandly than before, “I want you to give a little money—just a little money—to help save thousands of your fellowbeings from going to hell.” “I will not,” said Cromwell, returning to his work. “Get out.' There don’t half enough go there now.”