For weeks the kindergarten had been deluged with nature verses, and the process of absorption was far advanced. Sufficiently to admit of a little squeezing with results, thought the teacher.

"Now, children," she said, "I want you each to bring in a little verse that you have made yourselves about the buds, or the trees, or the flowers, or anything that pleases you."

Various specimens were produced next day, but the gem of the collection was little May Flynn's. With appropriate gestures she recited:

"See the pretty gold fish swimming in the globe!

See the pretty robin singing in the tree!

Who teached these two to fly together?

Who stucked the fur upon their b.r.e.a.s.t.s?

'Twas G.o.d. 'Twas G.o.d. He done it."

A story about King Edward is worth repeating. Just before the illness which caused the postponement of the coronation, he was racing down one of the country roads in his motor-car at a speed which was away beyond the legal limit.

"Hi! Hi!" called a policeman. "Stop there, in the name of the law!"

His Majesty is said to have slackened speed and called out: "But I'm the king!"

"Jest you come aht o' that," was the reply; "yer the third king wot's come along this morning."

In order to play "Rosemary" some years ago, John Drew shaved off his mustache, thereby greatly changing his appearance. Shortly afterward he met Max Beerbohm in the lobby of a London theater, but could not just then recall who the latter was. Mr. Beerbohm's memory was better.

"Oh, Mr. Drew," he said, "I'm afraid you don't know me without your mustache."

A truly eloquent parson had been preaching for an hour or so on the immortality of the soul.

"I looked at the mountains," he declaimed, "and could not help thinking, 'Beautiful as you are, you will be destroyed, while my soul will not.' I gazed upon the ocean and cried, 'Mighty as you are you will eventually dry up, but not I.'"

"Now if I don't git rid o' dis cold soon," complained Jimmy, the jockey, "I'll be a dead one."

"Did you go to Dr. Goodman, as I told you?" asked his friend.

"Naw! De sign on his door said '10 to 1' an' I wouldn't monkey wid no long shot like dat."

Herbert S. Stone, the publisher, described at a dinner in Washington the amusing methods of a newspaper writer who used to write articles at a set rate a column.

He was once commissioned to do a serial story for a Chicago paper. The story, as it proceeded from week to week, was interesting, but it contained many pa.s.sages like the following:

"Did you hear him?"

"I did."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Where?"

"By the well."

"When?"

"To-day."

"Then he lives?"

"He does."

"Ah."

The editor, sending for the man, said:

"Hereafter we will pay you by the letters in your serial. We will pay you so much a thousand letters."

The young man, looking crestfallen, went away, but in the very next instalment of his story he introduced a character who stuttered, and all through the chapter were scattered pa.s.sages like this:

"B-b-b-b-believe me, s-s-s-sir, I am n-n-not g-g-g-guilty. M-m-m-my m-m-m-mother c-c-c-committed this c-c-c-crime."

A man with a soft, low voice had just completed his purchases in a department store of the City of Churches.

"What is the name?" asked the clerk.

"Jepson," replied the man.

"Chipson?"

"No, Jepson."

"Oh, yes, Jefferson."

"No, Jepson; J-e-p-s-o-n."

"Jepson?"

"That's it. You have it. Sixteen eighty-two--"

"Your first name, initial, please."