“Thank you,” replied the young woman.

“I hope we may see you often in our church home,” he went on.  “We are always glad to welcome new faces.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you live in this parish?” he asked.

The girl looked blank.

“If you will give me your address my wife and I will call on you some evening.”

“You wouldn’t need to go far, sir,” said the young woman, “I’m your cook!”

Bishop Goodsell, of the Methodist Episcopal church, weighs over two hundred pounds.  It was with mingled emotions, therefore that he read the following in Zion’s Herald some time ago: 

“The announcement that our New England bishop, Daniel A. Goodsell, has promised to preach at the Willimantic camp meeting, will give great pleasure to the hosts of Israel who are looking forward to that feast of fat things.”

It is a standing rule of a company whose boats ply the Great Lakes that clergymen and Indians may travel on its boats for half-fare.  A short time ago an agent of the company was approached by an Indian preacher from Canada, who asked for free transportation on the ground that he was entitled to one-half rebate because he was an Indian, and the other half because he was a clergyman.—­Elgin Burroughs.

Booker Washington, as all the world knows, believes that the salvation of his race lies in industry.  Thus, if a young man wants to be a clergyman, he will meet with but little encouragement from the head of Tuskegee; but if he wants to be a blacksmith or a bricklayer, his welcome is warm and hearty.

Dr. Washington, in a recent address in Chicago, said: 

“The world is overfull of preachers and when an aspirant for the pulpit comes to me, I am inclined to tell him about the old uncle working in the cotton field who said: 

“’De cotton am so grassy, de work am so hard, and de sun am so hot, Ah ‘clare to goodness Ah believe dis darkey am called to preach.’”

On one occasion the minister delivered a sermon of but ten minutes’ duration—­a most unusual thing for him.

Upon the conclusion of his remarks he added:  “I regret to inform you, brethren, that my dog, who appears to be peculiarly fond of paper, this morning ate that portion of my sermon that I have not delivered.  Let us pray.”

After the service the clergyman was met at the door by a man who as a rule, attended divine service in another parish.  Shaking the good man by the hand he said: 

“Doctor, I should like to know whether that dog of yours has any pups.  If so I want to get one to give to my minister.”

Recipe for a parson: 

  To a cupful of negative goodness
    Add the pleasure of giving advice. 
  Sift in a peck of dry sermons,
    And flavor with brimstone or ice.

  —­Life.

A pompous Bishop of Oxford was once stopped on a London street by a ragged urchin.