Calling a private, he said testily:
“Go out and get that sniper.”
The man was gone for some time, but he eventually returned with Fritz. He had not got him in, however, before he began to belabor him fiercely.
“What are you beating up that Hun for?” asked a comrade.
“He missed the Colonel,” whispered the other.
Miss Amy Lowell, sister of President Lowell of Harvard, is not only a distinguished poetess, being by many considered the head of the Vers Libre school in this country, but she is also the guardian of a most handsome and stately presence.
Oliver Herford, himself a poet and wit, doubtless inspired by envy, recently remarked of her that
“One half of Amy Lowell doesn’t know how the other half lives.”
A couple of Philadelphia youths, who had not met in a long while, met and fell to discussing their affairs in general.
“I understand,” said one, “that you broke your engagement with Clarice Collines.”
“No, I didn’t break it.”
“Oh, she broke it?”
“No, she didn’t break it.”
“But it is broken?”
“Yes. She told me what her raiment cost, and I told her what my income was. Then our engagement sagged in the middle and gently dissolved.”
William Williams hated nicknames. He used to say that most fine given names were ruined by abbreviations, which was a sin and a shame. “I myself,” he said, “am one of six brothers. We were all given good, old-fashioned Christian names, but all those names were shortened into meaningless or feeble monosyllables by our friends. I shall name my children so that it will be impracticable to curtail their names.”
The Williams family, in the course of time, was blessed with five children, all boys. The eldest was named after the father—William. Of course, that would be shortened to “Will” or enfeebled to “Willie”—but wait! A second son came and was christened Willard. “Aha!” chuckled Mr. Williams, “Now everybody will have to speak the full names of each of these boys in order to distinguish them.”
In pursuance of this scheme the next three sons were named Wilbert, Wilfred, and Wilmont.
They are all big boys now. And they are respectively known to their intimates as Bill, Skinny, Butch, Chuck, and Kid.
No man is ever willing to admit that he has any prejudices. But sometimes the facts confront him sternly, as in the case of the two gentlemen in the following dialogue:
Briggs: I wonder why it is that when men like Bryan and Billy Sunday accept good money we have a tendency secretly to despise them.