little newsboy came over and said:
"Say, mister, yer lamp's out!"
Senator Hoar used to tell with glee of a Southerner just home from New England who said to his friend, "You know those little white round beans?"
"Yes," replied the friend; "the kind we feed to our horses?"
"The very same. Well, do you know, sir, that in Boston the enlightened citizens take those little white round beans, boil them with molasses and I know not what other ingredients, bake them, and then—what do you suppose they do with the beans?"
"They—"
"They eat 'em, sir," interrupted the first Southerner impressively; "bless me, sir, they eat 'em!"
The newly married couple had gone West to live, and as the Christmas season drew nigh she became homesick.
"Even the owls are different here," she sighed.
"And how is that?" he asked.
"Here they say 'To-hoot-to-who,' and in Boston they say 'To-hoot-to-whom.'"
"Lay down, pup. Lay down. That's a good doggie. Lay down, I tell you."
"Mister, you'll have to say, 'Lie down.' He's a Boston terrier."
"Well, the Red Sox won the world's series."
"Yes," said the Boston girl, "we feel very proud of the Red—er—the Red Hose."
BOY SCOUTS
A Boy Scout's Will
I, John W. Bradshaw, pioneer scout of the Wolf Patrol, having attained the age of maturity and realizing that my Boy Scout days are numbered, do hereby give, devise and bequeath my scout assets, tangible and intangible, as follows, to wit:
My uniform, pack and equipment, to Larry O'Toole, the son of my mother's laundress, to be preserved for him until he is old enough to use them;
My scout's manual, axe and compass, to George Washington Jackson, 3d, son of my father's handy man, with the admonition that he organize, if possible, a troop of scouts among the colored boys of the village;
My strap watch with the "see by night" dial, to Roscoe, my small brother, who has wanted it ever since he learned to tell time;
My waterproof match box and hunting knife, to James Fanning, to be held in trust until he can repeat the Scout Oath;
To all boys in general I bequeath the knowledge that the Boy Scout organization teaches obedience, bravery, loyalty, self-respect, kindness, thrift, cleanliness and reverence; that it makes men of its members, and that no boy can possibly go wrong by joining it.
BOYS
"I see they are making shingles out of cement now."
"Then I recall my wish to be a boy again."
One of Theodore Roosevelt's sons, when small, was playing in the Washington streets when a woman recognized him and said she didn't think his father would like his playing with so many "common boys."
"My father says there are no common boys," replied the young Roosevelt.
"He says there are only tall boys and short boys, and good boys and bad boys, and that's all the kinds of boys there are."
Johnny stood beside his mother as she made her selection from the green grocer's cart, and the latter told the boy to take a handful of nuts, but the child shook his head.
"What's the matter, don't you like nuts?" asked the green grocer.
"Yes," replied Johnny.
"Then go ahead and take some."
Johnny hesitated, whereupon the green grocer put a generous handful in Johnny's cap.
After the man had driven on the mother asked: "Why didn't you take the nuts when he told you to?"
Johnny winked as he said: "'Cause his hand was bigger'n mine."
Golly! Let him whistle, mother!
He's just boy—that's all.
Let him be one while he can: you'll find it pays.
Jolly little baby brother!
When the shadows fall
You'll be wishin' he was back in boyhood days!
If you'd been in France and seen
All the things that I have seen—
Baby faces that will never
Baby faces be again—
Say! You wouldn't check that whistle
For a million iron men!
Lordy! mother, let him holler!
He's not hurting anything;
And he's carefree as a puppy—just that gay.
Dirty shirt, without a collar—
Never was a king
Happy as that baby yonder, yelling at his play.
Little kiddies over there—
Solemn eyes and tangled hair—
Ten years old? That's still a baby!
What he's doin's baby stuff!
And the dignity of manhood
Will be comin' quick enough!
Let him yell and squeal and whistle,
Rollin' in the sand;
Let him have the freedom of the whole back lot.
Things that hurt like thorn o' thistle
Workin' in your hand
You'll be wishin' some time that those things were not!
When I think of babies—old
From the things that can't be told—
And then look at him a-dancin',
Singin', shoutin', in his joy:
