"No; his father said that." "Said he'd rather have a thousand apple trees?" "No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple trees than-" "Said he'd rather George would?" "No; said he'd rather he would than have him lie." "Oh, George would rather have his father lie?" We are patient, and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch Street, hadn't come and got her prodigy at this critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of that snarl. And as Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers patted down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree. In the House of Representatives one day Mr. Springer was finishing an argument and ended by saying, "I am right, I know I am; and I would rather be right than be President." He stood near the late S. S. Cox, who looked mischievously across at him and said as he ended, "Don't worry about that, Springer: you'll never be either." THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT BEHOLD the mansion reared by dedal Jack. See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack, In the proud cirque of Ivan's bivouac. Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade Anon with velvet foot and Tarquin strides Subtle grimalkin to his quarry glides— Grimalkin grim that slew the fierce rodent Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent. Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault, That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt, Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall That rose complete at Jack's creative call. Here stalks the impetuous cow with crumpled horn Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn, Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, Lactiferous spoils from vaccine drugs who drew Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn Tossed to the clouds in fierce, vindictive scorn The harrowing hound whose braggart bark and stir Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur Of puss, that with verminicidal claw Struck the weird rat in whose insatiate maw Lay reeking malt that erst in Juan's courts we saw. Robed in senescent garb that seems in sooth To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands Drew albu-lactic bovine wealth from lacteal glands Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn Distort to realm ethereal was borne The beast catulean, vexed of the sly Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn, The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last, Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast. Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament, o him, who, robed in garments indigent, xosculates the damsel lachrymose, The emulgator of that horned brute morose, That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that kilt The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. The late Mr. William R. Travers liked Bermuda enormously, but it would seem that he found its comforts not altogether unalloyed. A friend who once visited him there was congratulating him on his improved appearance. “This is a grand place for change and rest," said his friend. "Just what you needed." "Yes," replied Mr. Travers, sadly. "Th-ththis is a magn-ni-ni-nif-ficent place f-f-f-for b-b-both. The ni-ni-niggers look out f-f-f-for the ch-ch-ch-change, and the hotel ke-ke-keepers take th-th-the rest." JOSEPH BERT SMILEY ST. PETER AT THE GATE ST. PETER Stood guard at the golden gate The woman was tall, and lank, and thin, The choirs in the distance the echoes woke And the man kept still while the woman spoke: To let us enter the heavenly land, Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt There is nothing from heaven to bar me out; I've told the sinners about the day |