Meanwhile, while she sat there thinking all these things over, the paint was setting harder than ever; ditto the lady. Something must be done; and she had got to do it herself. So she began a sort of rocking movement; back and forth, side to side, she twisted and writhed. She realized, more than ever, how much she had become attached to that old tin bath tub; she realized how it was going to pain her to break away from it; sometimes she doubted as to whether she _could_ go away and leave it; she wondered if she would have to go through life wearing that darned old tin bath tub.

But she kept weaving back and forth and from side to side and little by little, inch by inch, she could feel _something_ giving way; she was not sure, yet, whether it was the tub, the paint or herself; but something was giving way. And at last, with one agonizing jerk, she broke away and arose to her feet. And then she turned and looked down into the tub to see what had happened; and what she saw there brought a sigh of relief to her lips; for she discovered that she was still intact; and the tub was all there; what had given way was the paint; and gleaming up at her from the bottom of the bath tub, like a full moon through the clouds, was a bright and shining circle of the tin, free from all enc.u.mbrance in the shape of paint or varnish.

As I say, she gave a sigh of relief; but almost instantly this sigh of relief was followed by a gasp of dismay. _If the paint was gone from the tub, where was it?_

Again she discovered that, although her troubles were all behind her, they were still with her. Frantically grasping soap, scrubbing brush and towel she tried to erase the foul stain from her character. But after five minutes' frantic labor she discovered that her trouble was too deep seated for soap and water.

She tried toilet water; witch hazel; bay rum; listerine; any and everything in reach; and the villain still pursued her. Every moment was getting precious now; Hubbie was about due to come home, and if Hubbie ever found out about this--well--life would be one grand sweet laugh to him "from thence henceonward forever." Hastily wrapping her bathrobe about her she went to the telephone and called up the paint store, and in frantic tones asked the paint man what she could use to remove paint from anything. The paint man asked what the paint was on. She said it was on her fingers; and it was--some of it. The man told her to use spirits of turpentine. And she did.

When the lady recovered consciousness--but what's the use; this was told to me in confidence anyway, and I promised not to say a word about it.

So I won't.

We were calling on some German friends of ours in Minneapolis. Their daughter's husband had just purchased an automobile and the old folks were all fussed up over it. It was all they could think or talk about.

Finally Mother asked me which I considered the best make of car.

"Well," I said, "it is rather a peculiar thing, but our best American cars all seem to have names beginning with the letter P. There is the Pierce Arrow, the Peerless and the Packard--"

"Ja," said Mother eagerly, "and the Puick."

_Oh You Pinkie!_

"Miss Pink b.u.mp, of Hickory Grove, is visiting at the home of George Flemming."--_Milledgville (Ill.) Free Press._

The "Bobbie" Richardsons had just moved from Kansas City to Kalamazoo.

They had brought their old colored cook with them, but had had to secure a "local talent" nurse-maid for the two little girls. On the afternoon of their second day in their new home two ladies dropped in to pay their respects to their new neighbors. Mrs. Bobbie hurriedly sent the new nurse-maid upstairs to prepare little Alice and Mary for inspection and went in to receive her visitors.

Everything was progressing finely, when all at once a clear, shrill little voice came floating down the stairway--

"I don't care! company or no company, I will _not_ be washed in spit."

(Wanted: A Nurse-maid. Baptist preferred.)

Tom McRae is the leading lawyer of Prescott, Ark. Before the War the McRaes were large slaveowners; and to this day if one of the colored people gets into any trouble he immediately comes to "Mars' Tom" to help him out. One day last summer the village barber, a big, sporty kind of a young colored chap, came in to Tom's office and said,

"Mars' Tom, I reckons as how I'll have to have you get me a devose frum dat wife of mine."

"A divorce? What are you talking about? If you ever get a divorce from Caroline you will starve to death. You have got one of the best wives in this town."

"No, suh, no, suh, Mars' Tom. Youall don't know dat woman. Dat woman is de mos' 'stravigant woman in the whole State of Arkansas. Mo'nin', noon an' night dat woman is pesterin' me fo' money. Dollar hyar--fo' bits dere--two bits fo' dis and a dime fo' that. I don' dare go home no mo'.

No, suh, de only thing that is goin' do me no good is a devose."

"Well, I am astonished," said Tom. "I never dreamed Caroline was that kind of a woman. What does she do with all this money?"

"G.o.d knows, Mars' Tom. I hain't never give her none yet."

We were playing in New York. Preceding us on the bill were the Martin Brothers, playing for twenty-two minutes on Xylophones. After the show a friend of ours from Hartford, Conn., joined us at lunch. We were discussing the show and finally he said,

"Will, do you know I could live a long time, and be perfectly happy, if I never heard one of those picket-fence soloists again."

My wife was drinking a gla.s.s of iced tea; he kept glancing at it and finally he said,

"Do you know, I can understand anybody drinking that stuff _at home_; or if somebody had given it to you. But the idea of anybody _buying_ it!

and _paying_ for it."

Solomon and David were merry kings of old, About whose pleasant fancies full many a tale is told.

But when old age o'ertook them, with its many, many qualms, King Solomon wrote the Proverbs and King David wrote the Psalms.

In a restaurant window on Thirteenth Street, St. Louis:

"Small Steak, 20 cents. Extra Small Steak, 25 cents."

In a bakery window in Omaha:

"Homemade pize fifteen cents."

"Married: At East Walpole, Ma.s.s., Jan. 27th, 1912, Robert P. Ba.s.s, Governor of New Hampshire, and Miss Edith Harlan Bird."

(The members of the New Hampshire Fish and Game League will now arise and sing: "What Shall the Harvest Be.")

The hardest luck story I have run across lately was a fellow playing a moving picture house in Salt Lake City who had a check come to him by mail. The check was for twenty-five dollars; and the only man in town who could identify him was a man he owed thirty dollars.

I see there is an act playing in Vaudeville this year by the name of Doolittle & Steel. Make your own jokes.