"Now, children," said the visiting minister who had been asked to question the Sunday-school, "with what did Samson arm himself to fight against the Philistines?"
None of the children could tell him.
"Oh, yes, you know!" he said, and to help them he tapped his jaw with one finger. "What is this?" he asked.
This jogged their memories, and the class cried in chorus: "The jawbone of an ass."
All work and no plagiarism makes a dull parson.
Bishop Doane of Albany was at one time rector of an Episcopal church in Hartford, and Mark Twain, who occasionally attended his services, played a joke upon him, one Sunday.
"Dr. Doane," he said at the end of the service, "I enjoyed your sermon this morning. I welcomed it like on old friend. I have, you know, a book at home containing every word of it."
"You have not," said Dr. Doane.
"I have so."
"Well, send that book to me. I'd like to see it."
"I'll send it," the humorist replied. Next morning he sent an unabridged dictionary to the rector.
The four-year-old daughter of a clergyman was ailing one night and was put to bed early. As her mother was about to leave her she called her back.
"Mamma," she said, "I want to see my papa."
"No, dear," her mother replied, "your papa is busy and must not be disturbed."
"But, mamma," the child persisted, "I want to see my papa."
As before, the mother replied: "No, your papa must not be disturbed."
But the little one came back with a clincher: "Mamma," she declared solemnly, "I am a sick woman, and I want to see my minister."
PROFESSOR—"Now, Mr. Jones, assuming you were called to attend a patient who had swallowed a coin, what would be your method of procedure?"
YOUNG MEDICO—"I'd send for a preacher, sir. They'll get money out of anyone."
Archbishop Ryan was once accosted on the streets of Baltimore by a man who knew the archbishop's face, but could not quite place it.
"Now, where in hell have I seen you?" he asked perplexedly.
"From where in hell do you come, sir?"
A Duluth pastor makes it a point to welcome any strangers cordially, and one evening, after the completion of the service, he hurried down the aisle to station himself at the door.
He noticed a Swedish girl, evidently a servant, so he welcomed her to the church, and expressed the hope that she would be a regular attendant. Finally he said if she would be at home some evening during the week he would call.
"T'ank you," she murmured bashfully, "but ay have a fella."
A minister of a fashionable church in Newark had always left the greeting of strangers to be attended to by the ushers, until he read the newspaper articles in reference to the matter.
"Suppose a reporter should visit our church?" said his wife.
"Wouldn't it be awful?"
"It would," the minister admitted.
The following Sunday evening he noticed a plainly dressed woman in one of the free pews. She sat alone and was clearly not a member of the flock. After the benediction the minister hastened and intercepted her at the door.
"How do you do?" he said, offering his hand, "I am very glad to have you with us."
"Thank you," replied the young woman.
"I hope we may see you often in our church home," he went on. "We are always glad to welcome new faces."
"Do you live in this parish?" he asked.
The girl looked blank.
"If you will give me your address my wife and I will call on you some evening."
"You wouldn't need to go far, sir," said the young woman, "I'm your cook!"
Bishop Goodsell, of the Methodist Episcopal church, weighs over two hundred pounds. It was with mingled emotions, therefore that he read the following in Zion's Herald some time ago:
"The announcement that our New England bishop, Daniel A. Goodsell, has promised to preach at the Willimantic camp meeting, will give great pleasure to the hosts of Israel who are looking forward to that feast of fat things."
Booker Washington, as all the world knows, believes that the salvation of his race lies in industry. Thus, if a young man wants to be a clergyman, he will meet with but little encouragement from the head of Tuskegee; but if he wants to be a blacksmith or a bricklayer, his welcome is warm and hearty.
Dr. Washington, in a recent address in Chicago, said:
"The world is overfull of preachers and when an aspirant for the pulpit comes to me, I am inclined to tell him about the old uncle working in the cotton field who said:
"'De cotton am so grassy, de work am so hard, and de sun am so hot, Ah 'clare to goodness Ah believe dis darkey am called to preach.'"