Two negroes were talking about a recent funeral of a member of their race, at which funeral there had been a profusion of floral tributes. Said the cook:
"Dat's all very well, Mandy; but when I dies I don't want no flowers on my grave. Jes' plant a good old watermelon-vine; an' when she gits ripe, you come dar, an' don't you eat it, but jes' bus' it on de grave, an' let de good old juice dribble down thro' de ground!"
"That's rather a handsome mantelpiece you have there, Mr. Binkston," said the visitor.
"Yes," replied Mr. Binkston, proudly. "That is a memorial to my wife."
"Why—I was not aware that Mrs. Binkston had passed away," said the visitor sympathetically.
"Oh no, indeed, she hasn't," smiled Mr. Binkston. "She is serving her thirtieth sojourn in jail. That mantelpiece is built of the bricks she was convicted of throwing."