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THE ATLANTIAN
17
WORKED OVERTIME.
(From the Washington Star.)
“Yes,” said Farmer Corntossel, “I
read every one of those speeches you
printed in The Record.”
“Did they benefit you!”
“Yes, sir. I won the $2 Zeb Perkins
bet that it couldn’t be done.”
DYING JEST.
(From the Denver Republican.)
The hunter, who had been mistaken
for a deer and shot, roused up and
beckoned to the hospital nurse.
“Understand,” he said, “I don’t
care so much about being killed, but
it’s this being made game of that hurts
my feelings.”
UP-TO-DATE.
(From the Chicago Post.)
“Well, Wun Lung,” says the cus
tomer, “I suppose that you are going
back to China to help organize the new
republic. ’ ’
“No,” suavely replies the laundry-
man, “I wait until the new republic is
organized, then I go back and organize
a laundry trust.”
WM. ROBINSON,
Clerk of Ordinary’s Court.
HE’LL GET IT.
(From the Detroit Free Press.)
Mrs. Malade (weakly): “I wish to
explain again to you about willing my
property. ’ ’
Family Solicitor: “There, there;
don’t worry yourself. Leave it to me.”
Mrs. Malade (resigned): “I sup
pose I might as well. You ’ll get it,
anyway.' '
THE GENUINE ARTICLE.
(From Harper’s Weekly.)
1 ‘ I don’t know about this picture,
Bobby,” said the'visitor as he ran over
specimens of the youngster ’s camera
work. “I am afraid a dog with a pro
peller instead of a tail is something of
a fake.”
“That ain’t a propeller,” said Bob
by. “That’s his tail. He kept wag-
gin’ it while his picture was being took-
ened.”
A TRAGEDY.
(J. W. Foley, in the New York Times.)
He was just a dog, Mister—that’s all;
And all of us boys called him Bub;
He was curly and not very tall,
And he hadn’t a tail—just a stub.
His tail froze one cold night, you see,
We just pulled the rest of him
through.
No—he didn’t have much pedigree—
Perhaps that was frozen off, too.
He always seemed quite well behaved,
And he never had many bad fights.
In summer he used to be shaved,
And he slept in the woodshed o’
nights.
Sometimes he would wake up too soon
And cry if his tail got a chill;
Some nights he would bark at the moon,
But some nights he would sleep very
still.
He knew how to play hide-and-seek
And he always would come when you’d
call;
He would play dead, roll over and
speak,
And learned it in no time at all.
Sometimes he would growl, just in play,
But ho never would bite, and his worst
Was to bark at the postman one day,
But the postman, he barked at him
first.
He used to chase cats up a tree,
But that was just only in fun;
And a cat was as safe as could be—
Unless it should start out to run;
Sometimes he’d chase children and
throw
Them down, just while running along,
And then lick their faces to show
He didn’t mean anything wrong.
He was chasing an automobile
When the wheel hit him right in the
side,
So he just gave a queer little squeal,
And curled up and stretched out and
died.
His tail it was not very long,
He was curly and not very tall;
But ho never did anything wrong—
He was just our dog, Mister—that’s
all.
PROTECTION.
(From the Philadelphia Record.)
Wigg: “Subbubs has a big wood-
pile in front of his house. I wonder
why he doesn't burn coalf”
Wagg: “He does. The woodpile is
merely a protection against tramps.”
HIS PART. .
(From the Woman’s Home Companion.;
He had displeased his chums in a
small Vermont college, and his punish
ment consisted in being “ducked” in
►the fountain. The usual inquisition be
fore the faculty found all the suspects
present. With a sufficiently dignified
frown the president turned to the boy
who was supposed to be the ringleader
and asked:
“What part did you have in this
( prankf”
And the dignity of the meeting de
parted without ceremony when the boy
smiled and answered:
“A leg, sir.”
THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL.
(From the Los Angeles Examiner.)
How dear to this heart is the old roller
towel,
Which fond recollection presents to my
View.
It hung like a pall on the wall of the
washroom,
And gathered the grime of the lino
type crew.
The sink and the soap and the lye that
stood by it
Remain, but the towel is gone past re
call.
O tempora! Likewise O mores! Sic
transit
The time-honored towel that creaked
on the wall.
The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel,
The tacky old towel that hung on the'
wall.
Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll
of paper—
The old printer’s towel we’ll never see
more.
The new (see directions) is “used like
a blotter,”
And crumpled and scattered in wads
on the floor.
And often, when drying the hands in
this fashion,
The tears of remembrance will gather
and fall,
And I sigh (though I’m not what you’d
call sentimental)
For the classic old towel that propped
up the wall.
The sainte'd old towel, the tainted old
towel,
The gooey old towel that hung on the
wall.
A TEST.
(From the Baltimore American.)
“Do you believe the uses of adver
sity are sweet?”
‘ ‘ Ask the Sugar Trust. ’ ’
C. G. DOBBS,
Treasurer Lodge 302, and
Member Entertainment Com
mittee of the Southern As
sociation of Chairmen, which
Met in Atlanta Last Week.