“Thet a railroad ye-all surveyin’ fer?”
“Certainly,” replied the chief.
The farmer meditated a bit as he closed the barn doors behind them, when he remarked, somewhat aggressively, “I hain’t got no objections ter havin’ er railroad on my farm, but I’ll be darned ef I’m goin’ ter git up at all hours of the night ter open and shet them doors fer yer train ter go through!”
The German may understand his own point of view, but he hates exceedingly to have that point of view taken, even in part, by any one else.
An official who has scrutinized the reports made by German diplomatic representatives to their Government before the declaration of war furnishes this extract from one of them:
“The Americans are very rough. If you call one of them a liar he does not argue the matter after the manner of a German gentleman, but brutally knocks you down. The Americans have absolutely no Kultur.”
The whole Irish question, and its perfect solution—at least from one side—is summed up by the reply given by an Irishman to a professor, who, when they chanced to meet, said:
“Pat, tell me, now, what is your solution to the world problem?”
“Well, sor,” replied Pat, “I think we should have a world democracy—with an Irishman for king!”
Starting with a wonderful burst of oratory, the great evangelist had, after two hours’ steady preaching, become rather hoarse.
A little boy’s mother in the congregation whispered to her son, “Isn’t it wonderful? What do you think of him?”
“He needs a new needle,” returned the boy sleepily.
The captain and the mate on board the Pretty Polly were at loggerheads. They scowled whenever they met, and seized opportunities of scoring off each other with fearful glee. Each took a turn at making the day’s entries in the log-book, and the mate, when making his entries, was very surprised to find, in the captain’s handwriting, the words:
“June 2nd, 1917.—Mate drunk.”
He stared at it wrathfully a moment, then a slow grin broke over his face. He took his pen and wrote:
“June 3rd, 1917.—Captain sober.”
A bellhop passed through the hall of the St. Francis Hotel whistling loudly.
“Young man,” said Manager Woods sternly, “you should know that it is against the rules of this hotel for an employee to whistle while on duty.”
“I am not whistling, sir,” replied the boy, “I’m paging Mrs. Jones’s dog.”