Archbishop Whately was one day asked if he rose early. He replied that once he did, but he was so proud all the morning and so sleepy all the afternoon that he determined never to do it again.
A man who has an office downtown called his wife by telephone the other morning and during the conversation asked what the baby was doing.
"She was crying her eyes out," replied the mother.
"I don't know whether it is because she has eaten too many strawberries or because she wants more," replied the discouraged mother.
BANKS—"I had a new experience yesterday, one you might call unaccountable. I ate a hearty dinner, finishing up with a Welsh rabbit, a mince pie and some lobster à la Newburgh. Then I went to a place of amusement. I had hardly entered the building before everything swam before me."
BINKS—"The Welsh rabbit did it."
BUNKS—"No; it was the lobster."
BONKS—"I think it was the mince pie."
BANKS—"No; I have a simpler explanation than that. I never felt better in my life; I was at the Aquarium."—Judge.
Among a party of Bostonians who spent some time in a hunting-camp in Maine were two college professors. No sooner had the learned gentlemen arrived than their attention was attracted by the unusual position of the stove, which was set on posts about four feet high.
This circumstance afforded one of the professors immediate opportunity to comment upon the knowledge that woodsmen gain by observation.
"Now," said he, "this man has discovered that heat emanating from a stove strikes the roof, and that the circulation is so quickened that the camp is warmed in much less time than would be required were the stove in its regular place on the floor."
But the other professor ventured the opinion that the stove was elevated to be above the window in order that cool and pure air could be had at night.
The host, being of a practical turn, thought that the stove was set high in order that a good supply of green wood could be placed under it.
After much argument, they called the guide and asked why the stove was in such a position.
The man grinned. "Well, gents," he explained, "when I brought the stove up the river I lost most of the stove-pipe overboard; so we had to set the stove up that way so as to have the pipe reach through the roof."
Jack Barrymore, son of Maurice Barrymore, and himself an actor of some ability, is not over-particular about his personal appearance and is a little lazy.
He was in San Francisco on the morning of the earthquake. He was thrown out of bed by one of the shocks, spun around on the floor and left gasping in a corner. Finally, he got to his feet and rushed for a bathtub, where he stayed all that day. Next day he ventured out. A soldier, with a bayonet on his gun, captured Barrymore and compelled him to pile bricks for two days.
Barrymore was telling his terrible experience in the Lambs' Club in New York.
"Extraordinary," commented Augustus Thomas, the playwright. "It took a convulsion of nature to make Jack take a bath, and the United States Army to make him go to work."