Joe Jefferson had but one person with him who did not reverence the man and the name.

This individual, one Bagley by name, was the property man and annoyed the great comedian with undue familiarity. He had called Mr. Jefferson "Joey" during his entire thirty years' service.

Just previous to an auspicious opening in one of the big cities, Mr.

Jefferson discharged Bagley for humiliating him before a number of friends. Bagley got drunk right away, and that night paid his way to the gallery to see Mr. Jefferson present "Rip Van Winkle." The angry Frau has just driven poor, dest.i.tute Rip from the cottage when Rip turns and, with a world of pathos, asks: "Den haf I no interest in dis house?" The house is deathly still, the audience half in tears, when Bagley's cracked voice responds: "Only eighty per cent, Joey--only eighty per cent."

Dean Hole, the noted English clergyman who died recently, was the leading figure in many humorous stories. On one occasion he was crossing the Channel after a visit to the Continent, the voyage being very stormy.

The Dean was a bad sailor and had suffered a great deal on the trip.

At Dover he was looking over the railway company's rules on the station wall as a pa.s.senger came up. Said the Dean: "After that stormy voyage we have at least one advantage in making the subsequent trip to London. I see the company carries returning empties at reduced rates."

Gilbert Stuart, though a celebrated artist, was likewise a great braggart. On one occasion a great public dinner was given to Isaac Hull by the town of Boston, and he was asked to sit for his picture to the artist.

When Hull visited the studio Stuart took great delight in entertaining him with anecdotes of his English success, stories of the marquis of this and the baroness of that, which showed how elegant was the society to which he had been accustomed.

Unfortunately, in the midst of this grandeur, Mrs. Stuart, who did not know that there was a sitter, came in with ap.r.o.n on and her head tied up with some handkerchiefs, from the kitchen, and cried out: "Do you mean to have that leg of mutton boiled or roasted?" to which Stuart replied, with great presence of mind, "Ask your mistress."

This story is related of an old-time Judge in Sullivan County, N. Y.:

During a session of court there was so much talking and laughter going on that the Judge, becoming angry and confused, shouted in great wrath:

"Silence, here! We have decided half a dozen cases this morning, and I have not heard a word of one of them."

Irving Bach.e.l.ler, the author of "Eben Holden," went a little farther north than usual one summer while on his vacation, and penetrated Newfoundland. He caught a good many fish, but this did not prevent his keeping an eye on the natives. He was particularly impressed by the men who spent the day lounging about the village stores.

"What do you fellows do when you sit around the store like this?" he asked of the crowd arranged in a circle of tilted chairs and empty boxes and maintaining a profound silence.

"Well," drawled one of the oldest, "sometimes we set and think, and then again other times we jest set."

Not long before his death Thomas B. Reed visited some friends at their summer residence at Watch Hill, R. I. Late in the afternoon he was driven up to Westerly to take the 7 o'clock train for Boston. It was a warm evening, the horses lagged and he missed the train, the last Boston-bound train stopping at Westerly that night.

As Mr. Reed had an important engagement in Boston early the next day, he seemed worried until he learned that there was a Boston express which pa.s.sed Westerly at 9 o'clock. Then he smiled.

Going to the telegraph office, he directed a telegram to the superintendent of the road in Boston, and sent the following message:

"Will you stop the 9 o'clock express at Westerly to-night for a large party for Boston."

The answer came: "Yes. Will stop train."

Mr. Reed read the message, and smiled. When the train pulled in Mr.

Reed quietly started to board it, when the conductor said: "Where is that large party we were to stop for?"

"I am the large party," replied Mr. Reed, and he boarded the train.

Wilfred was sitting upon his father's knee watching his mother arranging her hair.

"Papa hasn't any Marcel waves like that," said the father, laughingly.

Wilfred, looking up at his father's bald pate, replied, "Nope; no waves; it's all beach."

The Prince of Wales is fond of telling a good story to his friends in connection with his visit to Ottawa some few years ago. The Prince--then Duke of York--stole away for a quiet bicycle spin early one morning, and in his ramblings met a farmer, heading marketward, his wagon temporarily stalled by the loss of a nut belonging to the whiffletree bolt. His Royal Highness, with his usual democratic kindness, a.s.sisted him in putting things right. On parting, the farmer expressed his rough thanks and asked if he might know the name of the person to whom he was indebted. The royal cyclist replied modestly: "I am the Duke of York. And may I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?" A broad, amused smile beamed from the farmer's face as he said: "Me! Me! Why, I'm your uncle, the Czar of Russia!"

"All right on behind there?" called the conductor from the front of the car.

"Hold on," cried a shrill voice. "Wait till I get my clothes on!"

The pa.s.sengers craned their necks expectantly. A small boy was struggling to get a basket of laundry aboard.

One of the jokes of which Kentuckians never grow weary concerns Senator Blackburn and his loyal appreciation of the liquid products of his native State. The Senator had gone to pay a visit to a friend of his who lived many miles distant. His friend met the Senator as he alighted at the station.

"How are you Joe?" his friend asked.

"I'm up against it," was the reply. "I lost the best part of my baggage en route."

"Did you misplace it, or was it stolen?" his friend inquired solicitously.

"Neither," said the Senator. "The cork came out."

Kentucky Tailor--"What size shall I make your hip pockets, Colonel, pint or quart?"

Once, during his second term, Grover Cleveland was asked to speak at a function in a certain town, and when he arrived at the depot the wind was blowing a gale, sleet was driving, and hailstones nearly as large as marbles were fiercely falling. Of course, the inevitable bra.s.s band was there, and at the sight of the President the performers struck up with all the strenuosity at their command.

"That is the most realistic music I ever heard," remarked Cleveland.