There are three kinds of liars:
1. The man whom others can't believe. He is harmless. Let him alone.
2. The man who can't believe others. He has probably made a careful study of human nature. If you don't put him in jail, he will find out that you are a hypocrite.
3. The man who can't believe himself. He is a cautious individual. Encourage him.
Two Irishmen were working on the roof of a building one day when one made a misstep and fell to the ground. The other leaned over and called:
"Are yez dead or alive, Mike?"
"Oi'm alive," said Mike feebly.
"Sure you're such a liar Oi don't know whether to belave yez or not."
"Well, then, Oi must be dead," said Mike, "for yez would never dare to call me a liar if Oi wor aloive."
FATHER (reprovingly)—"Do you know what happens to liars when they die?"
JOHNNY—"Yes, sir; they lie still."
A private, anxious to secure leave of absence, sought his captain with a most convincing tale about a sick wife breaking her heart for his absence. The officer, familiar with the soldier's ways, replied:
"I am afraid you are not telling the truth. I have just received a letter from your wife urging me not to let you come home because you get drunk, break the furniture, and mistreat her shamefully."
The private saluted and started to leave the room. He paused at the door, asking: "Sor, may I speak to you, not as an officer, but as mon to mon?"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Well, sor, what I'm after sayin' is this," approaching the captain and lowering his voice. "You and I are two of the most iligant liars the Lord ever made. I'm not married at all."
A conductor and a brakeman on a Montana railroad differ as to the proper pronunciation of the name Eurelia. Passengers are often startled upon arrival at his station to hear the conductor yell:
"You're a liar! You're a liar!"
And then from the brakeman at the other end of the car:
"You really are! You really are!"
MOTHER—"Oh, Bobby, I'm ashamed of you. I never told stories when I was a little girl."
BOBBY—"When did you begin, then, Mamma?"—Horace Zimmerman.
The sages of the general store were discussing the veracity of old Si Perkins when Uncle Bill Abbott ambled in.
"What do you think about it, Uncle Bill?" they asked him. "Would you call Si Perkins a liar?"
"Well," answered Uncle Bill slowly, as he thoughtfully studied the ceiling, "I don't know as I'd go so far as to call him a liar exactly, but I do know this much: when feedin' time comes, in order to get any response from his hogs, he has to get somebody else to call 'em for him."
A lie is an abomination unto the Lord and an ever present help in time of trouble.
An Idaho guide whose services were retained by some wealthy young easterners desirous of hunting in the Northwest evidently took them to be the greenest of tenderfoots, since he undertook to chaff them with a recital something as follows:
"It was my first grizzly, so I was mighty proud to kill him in a hand-to-hand struggle. We started to fight about sunrise. When he finally gave up the ghost, the sun was going down."
At this point the guide paused to note the effect of his story. Not a word was said by the easterners, so the guide added very slowly, "for the second time."
"I gather, then," said one young gentleman, a dapper little Bostonian, "that it required a period of two days to enable you to dispose of that grizzly."
"Two days and a night," said the guide, with a grin. "That grizzly died mighty hard."
"Choked to death?" asked the Bostonian.
"Yes, sir," said the guide.
"Pardon me," continued the Hubbite, "but what did you try to get him to swallow?"
When by night the frogs are croaking,
Kindle but a torch's fire;
Ha! how soon they all are silent;
Thus Truth silences the liar.—Friedrich von Logan.
The World War has incited veterans of the Civil War to new reminiscences of old happenings. One of these is based on the fact that furloughs were especially difficult to obtain when the Union army was in front of Petersburg, Virginia. But a certain Irishman was resolved to get a furlough in spite of the ban. He went to the colonel's tent, and was permitted to enter. He saluted, and delivered himself thus:
"Colonel, I've come to ax you to allow me the pleasure of a furlough for a visit home. I've been in the field now three years, an' never home yet to see me family. An' I jest had a letter from me wife wantin' av me to come home to see her an' the children."
The colonel shook his head decisively.
"No, Mike," he replied. "I'm sorry, but to tell the truth, I don't think you ought to go home. I've jest had a letter from your wife myself. She doesn't want you to come home. She writes me that you'd only get drunk, and disgrace her and the children. So you'd better stay right here until your term of service expires."
"All right, sir," Mike answered, quite cheerfully. He saluted and went to the door of the tent. Then he faced about.
"Colonel dear," he inquired in a wheedling voice, "would ye be after pardonin' me for a brief remark jist at this toime?"
"Yes, certainly," the officer assented.
"Ye won't git mad an' put me in the guard house for freein' me mind, so to spake?"
"No, indeed! Say what you wish to."
"Well, thin, Colonel darlint, I'm afther thinkin' thar are at the prisint moment in this tint two of the biggest liars in all the Army of the Potomic, an' sure I'm one av thim—I have no wife."