was selling a "Mother's Guide."
"With the aid of this indispensable book," he declared, "you will be able to bring up your children properly."
Mrs. Adolphus took the book and weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.
Then she caught it by the edge and brought it down on the palm of her hand, as if to see if it could be handled with ease and dexterity.
"I reckon I don't want it," she announced, "becase, as a fact, I don't see dat it's any bettah dan a slippah."
That's going back to first principles.
And you know as well as I do, that some of our best men were brought up that way.
There is nothing I enjoy better than the rattle of a political campaign.
Take such a hurly-burly time as we had when Jerome was running in New York for district attorney on the reform ticket.
Sometimes they call on me to make a speech, and if given enough time ahead in which to prepare, I get along all right.
Once, however, I was caught napping.
I had been given to understand that my name would be called last, and settled down to pick up some points from the other fellow's remarks, on which I could build. 'Tis an old trick.
Through some mistake my name was called second, and before I could fully collect my wits, I found myself there on the platform bowing to the applause.
"There seems to be some misunderstanding about my being called so early in the proceedings," I remarked, "and the incident puts me in mind of something that once happened in my native town.
"At the death of an eccentric citizen it was learned that he had himself written his epitaph.
"When the lettering on the stone was completed, we all went to see what our fellow-citizen had to say of himself, and this was what we read under his name and date of death:
"'I expected this, but not so soon.'"
That excused me. They didn't want any more speeches from me. They thought it was an insinuation that our candidate would soon be a dead one.
And while I'm on the subject of politics I want to tell you of a little scene that I always look back on with a grin.
I happened to be in one of those happy Western towns during the heat of a campaign where they serve out cocktails and revolvers to all comers.
The governor was a candidate for re-election, and being a hustler, made many hot speeches from the hustings.
Some of the opposition had gathered in front of the hall, and with the idea of making him nervous, interrupted every little while just when he was waxing eloquent.
One very homely-looking man insisted on asking a question about every five minutes.
He usually prefaced them by such remarks as "Just a minute, please," or "Let me interrupt for a minute."
Finally, in an unhappy moment, he broke in with:
"Pardon me, but – "
Before he could finish, the governor, quickly seizing his long-awaited opportunity, replied:
"Well, I've pardoned worse looking fellows than you in my time, and I suppose it would be unjust to draw the line now."
You bet there were no more interruptions after that.
Some of you know Claude de Forrest, the actor.
He occasionally finds an engagement, but never twice with the same manager.
And yet Claude has his good points, and can do some stunts in his line.
Last winter he was playing at the same house where I had an engagement.
As the hero of the play he had just died a glorious stage death.
Loud and long the audience applauded.
At last he appeared before the curtain.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "as you insist on having a man who died a few minutes ago come to life and appear before you with a bow and a smile, I am here to comply with your wish.
"By way of destroying the illusion still further I will, with your permission, occupy the time while the stage is being made ready for the next act by reciting 'Hooligan at the Bat.'"
Which he proceeded to do.
And I fancy those misguided people soon wished they had not resurrected him so soon.
When you manage to run across an original man it pays to cultivate his acquaintance.
Hobbyhead has been a gold mine to me.
Whenever I have an attack of the blues I just hunt him up, and ten to one forget all my troubles.
A few more of his sort would make a stampede among the physicians out our way.
To tell the truth, every humorist knocks out a dozen doctors.
We were chatting the other day about things sacred and profane, when I chanced in the course of some remarks to mention that when Gabriel blew his horn on the final resurrection morn a good many persons would be surprised at the company they kept.
"Humph," grunted Hobbyhead, "don't you believe that our friend Gabriel will be the only trumpet sounder at the grand round-up."
"Why don't you think he won't?" I asked.
"Because every self-made man will insist on blowing his own horn."
While we were taking a walk through the country we met a farmer driving a fine bull in to market.
Both of us commented on the fact that it had a scrubby tail, and when Hobbyhead insisted on addressing the man I knew he had conceived a bright thought.
"I suppose, my friend, you'll have to sell that beast wholesale," he said.
The owner came from his reverie.
"What fer?"
"Well," assured my solemn friend, nodding his head toward the scrubby tuft of hair, and pursing his lips, "well, you see you cant have him re-tailed."
But occasionally Hobbyhead finds himself tripped up.
The pitcher may go to the well once too often.
I saw the deed done recently, and you ought to have been there to watch the humorist turn green with envy.
He was having some additions made to his country house, and had occasion to hire a tramp carpenter.
Somehow he was suspicious of the man's ability, and proceeded to put him through a course of sprouts.
"See here, my friend, do you know all about carpenter work?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," was the reply.
"You can make windows, doors and blinds?"
"Why,
