A Scottish woman, who was spending her holidays in London, entered a bric-a-brac shop, in search of something odd to take home to Scotland with her.  After she had inspected several articles, but had found none to suit her, she noticed a quaint figure, the head and shoulders of which appeared above the counter.

“What is that Japanese idol over there worth?” she inquired of the salesman.

The salesman’s reply was given in a subdued tone: 

“About half a million, madam.  That’s the proprietor!”

The late James McNeil Whistler was standing bareheaded in a hat shop, the clerk having taken his hat to another part of the shop for comparison.  A man rushed in with his hat in his hand, and, supposing Whistler to be a clerk angrily confronted him.

“See here,” he said, “this hat doesn’t fit.”

Whistler eyed the stranger critically from head to foot, and then drawled out: 

“Well, neither does your coat.  What’s more, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I’ll be hanged if I care much for the color of your trousers.”

The steamer was on the point of leaving, and the passengers lounged on the deck and waited for the start.  At length one of them espied a cyclist in the far distance, and it soon became evident that he was doing his level best to catch the boat.

Already the sailors’ hands were on the gangways, and the cyclist’s chance looked small indeed.  Then a sportive passenger wagered a sovereign to a shilling that he would miss it.  The offer was taken, and at once the deck became a scene of wild excitement.

“He’ll miss it.”

“No; he’ll just do it.”

“Come on!”

“He won’t do it.”

“Yes, he will.  He’s done it.  Hurrah!”

In the very nick of time the cyclist arrived, sprang off his machine, and ran up the one gangway left.

“Cast off!” he cried.

It was the captain.

Much to the curious little girl’s disgust, her elder sister and her girl friends had quickly closed the door of the back parlor, before she could wedge her small self in among them.

She waited uneasily for a little while, then she knocked.  No response.  She knocked again.  Still no attention.  Her curiosity could be controlled no longer.  “Dodo!” she called in staccato tones as she knocked once again. “’Tain’t me!  It’s Mamma!”

MOLLYCODDLES

“Tommy, why don’t you play with Frank any more?” asked Tommy’s mother, who noticed that he was cultivating the acquaintance of a new boy on the block.  “I thought you were such good chums.”

“We was,” replied Tommy superciliously, “but he’s a mollycoddle.  He paid t’ git into the ball-grounds.”

MONEY

In some of the college settlements there are penny savings banks for children.

One Saturday a small boy arrived with an important air and withdrew 2 cents from his account.  Monday morning he promptly returned the money.