Life — June 27, 1907 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

NO PLACE LIKE HOME When the cousin from the Middle West, who had never seen the ocean, was expected, her New England relatives rejoiced in the three-days’ wild storm that preceded her arrival, for it as sured such a surf as would render her first view suitably impees 1 ced het jubilantly toa jutting headland, where she could best behold the tremendous sea, and stood cagerly awaiting her verdict. It was unexpected. “Waves rolling mountain high, indeed!” she exclaimed, dis- gustedly, “Why, they aren't rolling any higher than second. story windows! Don't they do any better than that, ever?” She soon came to appreciate the real beauty and majesty of a scene for which the figurative language of the poets, taken liter- ally, had ill prepared her; but it was long before the dashed spir- its of her Eastern cousins resumed their buoyancy. A like shock was that experienced by a lady who accompanied a friend for the first time to the White Mountains. “There they are! Look!" she cried, as Mount Washingtoa and the assemble! peaks of the Presidential range burst majes- tically into view through parting clouds. “Where?” demanded her friend, eagerly. What, not those ? Why, I thought of course they would be snow-capped! What are they called White Mountains for if they're not white?” Still more discouraging was the experience of the farmer in a beautiful, softly rolling country, who was visited at the same time by relatives from Ilinois and relatives from Vermont. Cousin Jon from the prairies grew restless after a day or two, and finally owned he felt shut in and smothered hills! these hills! Living in a hole, I call it,” he said. a . I like to see a neighbor coming when he's ten miles off, and get some sense and feeling of the size of this good, big old world of ours. I want room!" Cousin Eliza, from the Green Mountains, made no remarks, but she shortened her visit by several days and admitted the reason, a trifle shamefacedly, on the morning of her departure. “The fact is, Eben," she owned, “it's so flat round bere I just couldn't stand it any longer. I'm downright homesick for a hill!""— Youth's Companion. Aw Exctistt tourist traveling in the northof Scotland, faraway from anywhere, exclaimed to one of the natives: “ Why, what do you do when any of youare ill? You can never get a doctor.”” “Nae, sir,” replied Sandy. “We've just to dee a natural death !"—Argonaut. Bilis] del elag = AUT SCISSORS Aut NULLUS IDLY DREAMING Capital and Labor chanced to meet. Good morning!” they exclaimed in cordial unison “I hope,” said Capital, “shat you find your wages satis factory.” “Entirely so," replied Labor, ‘and I trust your investment bringing fair returns.” “Excellent,” said Capital, and with a warm clasp of the hands they parted.—Philadel phia Ledger. The Big One: tr you'Lt come WITH Mr I'LL GIVE You some CE CANDY. I DON'T WANT ANY CANDY. IT'LL MAKE ME ALL STICKY, AN’ FIRST THING | KNOW, I'LL HAVE TO BE WASHED.” We Atso have a national Utilities Bill. His last name is Taft.—New York Evening Mail. Mr. C. is reported to be suffering from cold “caught by sitting in drafts of cold air at the Peace Conference." Then he certainly caught the cold during an intermission between speeches.—The Washington Post. “Your painting of ‘A Breton Kitchen’ seems to lack atmos- phere." “Yes. I'm thinking of painting in an open window there on the left.""—Cleveland Leader. GETTING AT THE ROOT rexident of a sleepy hamlet in Alabama While visiting the South recently a traveler chanced upm 7 “Are you a native of this town?” asked the traveler. Am 1a what?" languidly asked the one addressed Are you a native of the town?” “What's that?” . “Lasked you whether you were a native of the place?” At this juncture there appeared at the open door of the ai the man's wife. tall, sallow and gaunt. After a careful of the questioner, she said : * Ain't you got no sense, Bill? He means was yo! liv when you was born, of was yo' born before yo" begun livia Now answer him."—Success ‘Two or three generations ago, Dr. Samuel Reed was oce the prominent physicians of Boston, His large practice iil The The cluded many patients outside of the city limits, and thee Wl Regg visited in his bugay. One day he bought a new horse, with which he was rad pleased until he discovered that the animal had an insur able objection to bridges of all kinds and could not be made! cross one. As, at this period, it was necessary to cross some bridges order to reach any one of the surrounding towns, the doctor cided to sell the horse. He did not think it necessary to tion the animal's peculiarity, but was much too honest to mi represent him, and, after some thought, produced the foll advertisement, which he inserted in a local paper: * For SALR.—A bay horse, warranted sound and kind only reason for selling is because the owner is obliged to le Boston.""—June Lippincett’s. Ture late W. E. Gladstone was not a figure who suggest humor—unless it was to his great rival, Disraeli, who once &| scribed him as “a sophisticated rhetorician, intoxicated with exuberance of his own verbosity”—but there was humor in ti comment when his house in Harley Street was attacked one Sea day by thousands of workingmen, who were only driven off by double line of mounted police. Gladstone gazed upon the é bris of his hall and then remarked wearily that “the mob tal broken the Sabbath." — Bellman. Pace (who has returned Jrom unsuccessful search in library j} copy of * The Olynthiacs and Phillipes” of Demosthenes): Cat} find it, sir; but was it anything I could tell yer?—The Tate Sountminc at the Dutch Treat Club dinner recently remisdai George Mallon, of the Sum, of an old man up in Malone, N.Y, called Uncle Ike. He was so famed for his wisdom that whee ever anything extraordinary happened, the villagers alvap| asked: “What does Uncle Ike say?” Once a man became ill there and had to go West. Word cz back to Malone about the end of the winter that he had reache! the point of death. Everybody naturally asked: "What doe Uncle Ike say? ; “He'll live till June,” said Uncle Ike, promptly. “Why do you think 30?” asked Malone, breathlessly Vell,” answered Uncle Ike, sagely, “he always has." — Lire is published every Thursday. $5.00 a year in advunce. Postal Union, $1.04. year extra. 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