An eminent German scientist who recently visited this country with a number of his colleagues was dining at an American house and telling how much he had enjoyed various phases of his visit.

“How did you like our railroad trains?” his host asked him.

“Ach, dhey are woonderful,” the German gentleman replied; “so swift, so safe chenerally—­und such luxury in all dhe furnishings und opp’indmends.  All is excellent excebt one thing—­our wives do not like dhe upper berths.”

A couple of old grouches at the Metropolitan Club in Washington were one night speaking of an old friend who, upon his marriage, took up his residence in another city.  One of the grouches had recently visited the old friend, and, naturally, the other grouch wanted news of the Benedict.

“Is it true that he is henpecked?” asked the second grouch.

“I wouldn’t say just that,” grimly responded the first grouch, “but I’ll tell you of a little incident in their household that came within my observation.  The very first morning I spent with them, our old friend answered the letter carrier’s whistle.  As he returned to us, in the breakfast room, he carried a letter in his hand.  Turning to his wife, he said: 

“‘A letter for me, dear.  May I open it?’”—­Edwin Tarrisse.

“Your husband says he leads a dog’s life,” said one woman.

“Yes, it’s very similar,” answered the other.  “He comes in with muddy feet, makes himself comfortable by the fire, and waits to be fed.”

NEIGHBOR—­“I s’pose your Bill’s ‘ittin’ the ’arp with the hangels now?”

LONG-SUFFERING WIDOW—­“Not ’im.  ‘Ittin’ the hangels wiv the ’arp’s nearer ’is mark!”

“You say you are your wife’s third husband?” said one man to another during a talk.

“No, I am her fourth husband,” was the reply.

“Heavens, man!” said the first man; “you are not a husband—­you’re a habit.”

MR. HENPECK—­“Is my wife going out, Jane?”

JANE—­“Yessir.”

MR. HENPECK—­“Do you know if I am going with her?”

A happily married woman, who had enjoyed thirty-three years of wedlock, and who was the grandmother of four beautiful little children, had an amusing old colored woman for a cook.

One day when a box of especially beautiful flowers was left for the mistress, the cook happened to be present, and she said:  “Yo’ husband send you all the pretty flowers you gits, Missy?”

“Certainly, my husband, Mammy,” proudly answered the lady.

“Glory!” exclaimed the cook, “he suttenly am holdin’ out well.”

An absent-minded man was interrupted as he was finishing a letter to his wife, in the office.  As a result, the signature read: 

Your loving husband,

HOPKINS BROS.

Winifred C. Bristol.

Mrs. McKinley used to tell of a colored widow whose children she had helped educate.  The widow, rather late in life, married again.