A new idea is like an egg—the responsible party simply can’t help talking about it.
=Dear Captain Billy:= I heartily agree with you in the belief that man is a strange wild beast, and when he gets what he wanted, he wonders why he wanted it. That’s why I’m on my way to Hot Springs, singing the rheumatic blues.—=Sunset Slim.=
=Aromatic Army Cook=—Yes, I understand that the troop of Boston soldiers you mention moved to Seattle so that they could live on the Sound.
=Blonde Beauty=—I do not know what you mean by the expression “He has a Siberian dash board” unless it’s whiskers. Pay no attention to smooth French talk. He’s bulling you.
=Abe Goldberg=—No, I wouldn’t advise you to locate your undertaking establishment in O’Rourke park, Butte, Mont. You might as well sing “Wearin’ o’ the Green” in Piccadilly Circus, if that’s all the value you attach to your life.
=A. L. Tioga=—Sorry we can’t use your story about the barrel of apples and the sack of nuts by which the family rat was caught.
=Sweet Dottie=—You say you do some awful things sometimes, but that then it’s only to keep warm. If that’s your only reason, you had better postpone your “new leaf” turning until summer.
=Bringemin Young=—We’ve heard your story before about the stenographer who got $25 a week and half her board.
=Bobby=—I have heard that it goes good in cider.
=Miss Construe=—You say you miss your husband so often. Do you mean when you throw things at him?
Mamma’s in the kitchen, Singing “Alcoholic Blues,” Father’s in the cellar, Drinking Alcoholic Booze.
The graveyard is a mean old place—they lay you on your back and shovel dirt in your face.
Co-ed—I want something to wear around the dormitory.
Two girls from the city were spending their vacation in a small town in the middle west, and at the house where they were stopping was a devout old man who believed that the blue Sunday laws should go into effect full blast. It so happened that the girls were in the parlor one Sunday morning, playing the popular airs, when the devout sir entered and said: “Do you know this is Sunday?”
“Well, if you whistle the first two or three bars I might get them.”
It isn’t the things we’ve won and possessed that fill the coffers of life to overflowing. It’s the things we’ve lost, the things that make for sweet memories. That’s the sum and substance of life that endures—memories and their lessons.