MRS. CASEY--"Me sister writes me that every bottle in that box we sent her was broken. Are you sure yez printed 'This side up, with care' on it!"
CASEY--"Oi am. An' for fear they shouldn't see it on the top, Oi printed it on the bottom, as well."
COW--"Can you beat it? There's so much system around here now that they file me in the barn under the letter C."
HEN--"Yes, I have my troubles with efficiency too. They've put a rubber stamp in my nest so I can date my eggs two weeks ahead."
SMITH--"You seldom see such beautiful golf as that man plays. His drives were corking, his approaches superb and he never missed a putt."
When on myself I sometimes turn My gaze, with introspection stern, Three persons there I seem to see, "I" and "Myself," they are, and "Me."
"I" stands alone with confidence, Pugnacious, quick to take offense, Assertive, masterful and strong, Forever right and _never_ wrong, As Lewis Carroll once avowed, "I" is extremely "stiff and proud."
"Myself" is rather different, A chap who is less confident, Yet full conceited--selfish, too, And steeped in ego, through and through. Though others oft "Myself" decry, He's very, very dear to "I."
Unlike the other two is "Me"; A timid little fellow, he; Self-conscious, given oft to erring, My scorn and pity both incurring. Still, though he's shy as he can be, While few like "I," a lot like "Me."
Many a man thinks he is anxious to please others, when the truth is that he is only anxious that others be pleased with what he does.
I wonder just what kind of guy Am I? I guess it's time I took A look inside of me To see-- But, gee, I cuss I'm envious of what the other fellow's got, I loaf a lot, And foolish pleasures often buy-- That is the kind of sham I am. When things go wrong I growl along And take it out On some good scout Who's not to blame, Whatever came-- In fact The luck I lacked (Or luck I had, If mine was bad) Was mostly my Own fault. Why. I Am not a very pleasant guy, The poorest on the human shelf-- And, now that I Size up myself, Whatever other folks may see, I do not make a hit with Me.
"Max has sent me an interesting book, 'Relativity,' by Einstein. Have you read it?"
The wife of a Dorchester man who had the traditional failing--he forgot to mail letters--has cured him. The mail is delivered at their home before the breakfast hour--which is comparatively late. One morning she said to her husband: