The situation was getting painful when the officer was struck with a brilliant idea, and remarked, “Not today, thank you.” The procession then moved on.
“Mrs. Bing’s new baby is just in the fashion.”
The melancholy youth was lying in the hospital bed entertaining his visitors with tales of the battlefield.
“Yes,” he said, almost tearfully, “I have had a rough time. I was once so riddled with bullets the fellows behind me complained of the draft.”
The Presbyterians are having their day, it seems, if one looks over a list of the foremost men of today. Woodrow Wilson is a Presbyterian elder; Robert Lansing, Secretary of State, is likewise. Thomas R. Marshall, Vice President of the United States, is a Presbyterian; and so are General Pershing, in command of America’s legions abroad; General Peyton C. March, the new Chief of Staff; and General Hugh Scott. General Field Marshal Haig, of the British armies, is a member of the Church of Scotland, which is Presbyterian; and Field Marshal Joffre is a member of the Reformed Church, which in France is similarly nearest to the Presbyterian Church in the United States.
A Tommy on furlough entered a jeweler’s shop and, placing a much-battered gold watch on the counter, said, “I want this ’ere mended.”
After a careful survey the watchmaker said, “I’m afraid, sir, the cost of repairing will be double what you gave for it.”
“I don’t mind that,” said the soldier. “Will you mend it?”
“Well,” remarked Tommy, smiling, “I gave a German a punch on the nose for it, and I’m quite ready to give you two if you’ll mend it.”
“Lady (young) will gladly MARRY and give up life to the care and happiness of WOUNDED HERO, blinded or incapacitated by the war.—_Genuine, Box M 770, the London Times._”
The captain of the SS. Piffle listened patiently to a passenger’s account of his shooting abilities, then he quietly remarked:
“I don’t think you could hit this bottle at twenty yards, placed on the taffrail, while the ship is heaving like this.”
“It would be only child’s play,” said the passenger.
“Well, I’ll bet you a guinea you don’t hit it three times out of six.”
The bottle was placed in position. Crack! The passenger hit it, and it disappeared in fragments into the sea.
