From Bed to Voice—A Welshman who was very proud of his bass voice was describing a wonderful dream he’d had.
“I was in a mighty choir,” he said, “5,000 sopranos, 5,000 altos, 5,000 tenors—all singing together double forte.”
“It must have been wonderful,” said the listener. “But what about the basses?”
“That was it!” said the dreamer. “Suddenly the conductor stopped the choir and, turning to me, said: ‘Not
quite so loud in the bass, please, Mr. Jones!’ ”—Calgary Albertan.
The Wily West—We like the story about the woman who wrote in from a lonely western rural spot. She wrote: “My sister and I ain’t really lonely out here. We got each other to speak to. But we need another woman to talk about.”—Montreal Star.
Horse Sense—A full-blooded Pima Indian out in Arizona needed some cash, so he went to a banker and asked about a loan.
Banker: “How much do you need?” Indian: “Me want $200.”
Banker: “For how long?”
Indian: “Maybe two weeks; maybe two months.”
Banker: “And what security have you?”
Indian: “Me got 200 horses.” Banker: “That’s sufficient. We’ll loan you the $200.”
A short time afterward the Indian came back into the bank with $2,200 cash, paid off the note and started to leave with the rest of his roll.
Banker: “Why not let us take care of that money for you?”
The old Indian’s mind flew back to the day when he wanted $200, and looking the banker straight in the eye he solemnly asked:
“How many horses you got?”— Galt Reporter.
Bank Night—A dapper little man applied for a separation order to he made out against his wife on the ground of cruelty.
When asked by the magistrate if he could prove his case, he replied meekly: “One night I dreamed I won $100,000, and the following morning my wife nearly killed me for not putting it in the bank before I woke up.”—Sherbrooke Record.
Same Old Story—“For ten years, ten long and lean years,” cried the author, “I have been writing this drama, changing a word here, a line there, working on it till my fingers were cramped and aching, my brain and body weary from the toil.”
“Too bad; too bad,” the producer murmured. “All work and—no play.” —Sarnia Observer.
Some Crust—During his tour of the kitchen the sergeant tasted a fruit pie.
“What kind of pie is this?” he snapped, after swallowing the mouthful with an effort.
“What does it taste like?” asked the cook, hurt at the question.
“Putty!” snapped the sergeant.
“Then it’s peach pie,” said the cook bitterly. “The apple pie tastes like paraffin!”—Guelph Mercury.
Host Story—Guest—“Well, good night, I hope I haven’t kept you up late.”
Host (yawning)—“Not at all. We should have been getting up soon in any case.” — Port Arthur News Chronicle.
He Gets Around—Working in a munition factory a man got his coat caught in a revolving wheel.
He was whisked up and whirled round and round till the foreman managed to switch off the machine. The workman fell to the ground and up rushed the foreman.
“Speak to me, speak to me!” he said.
“Why should I?” said the workman. “I passed you six times just now, and you didn’t speak to me!”—Fredericton Gleaner.
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