Sergeant. "What did you mean by telling me you was accustomed to 'orses? What kind of 'orses was it?"
Recruit. "Wooden 'osses. I was workin' the hengine wot drove the roundabout."
THE PERFECT LETTER-WRITER.
Sometimes it happens that illiteracy can get there as quickly and surely as the highest culture, though by a different route, as in the following instance.
Once upon a time there was a Little Tailor in a little shop in Soho. Not a tailor in the ordinary sense of the word, but a ladies' tailor. He was never seen out of shirt sleeves which might have been whiter, and he came from one of the foreign lands where the youths seem to be under conscription for this trade. What land it was I cannot say for certain, but I should guess one of the Polands—German probably, but called Russian by him.
Once upon a time—in fact, at the same time—there was also a lady connected with the stage, and as her theatre was contiguous to the Little Tailor's place of business, it was only natural that when one of her gowns was suddenly torn her dresser should hasten to him to have it put right. But the charge was so disproportionate to the slight work done that the dresser deferred payment, and deferred it so long that the Little Tailor had to lay down the shears and take the pen in their place. And this is what he wrote:—
"Dear Miss,—I don't feel like exactly to quarrel with somebody. But it is the first time in my life happens to me a thing like that. And therefore I am not going to let it go. I was just keeping quiet to see what you would do. But what I can see you think I have forgotten about it. But I may tell you this much. It is not the few shillings but it is the impudence to come in while I am away to ask the girl to do it as a special, and then to come in and take it away, and then tell the girl you would come in to-morrow to see me. And this is six weeks already and you have not come yet. The only thing I can say now, Miss, if you will kindly send the money by return, because I tell you candidly. I will not be had by you in this manner. Should you not send the money I shall try to get to know you personally, and will have something to say about it."
If the art of letter-writing is to state clearly one's own position, that is as good a letter as any written. Every word expresses not only the intention of the writer but his state of mind. Not even—shall we say?—Mr. Landfear Lucas could improve upon it except in inessentials.
Baby Mine!
"Fenning—May 6, 1915, at 3 Wood quay, Dublin, the wife of Thos. J. Fonning of a Goldfields."—Irish Independent.
Comforting Experts.
"Travelling at sea is dangerous always. It is not made more so by the submarine..."
"The Times" Naval Correspondent.
"She usually enveloped herself in a large, stiff, white apron. It was her sinecure of office, as the curé's shabby black cassock was his."—Everyman.
Thus carelessly clad they were, no doubt, the "sinecure" of every eye.
"This crow outside Biffi's café, in the famous Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, was not thirsting for German blood. It was merely good-humouredly encouraging some German visitors to catch the next train to that haven of German refugees, Lugano."—Daily Mail.
As Hamlet (another wearer of sable) remarked:—"Report me and my caws aright."
From an article by "A. G. G." on the Kaiser in the Daily News:
"He has never laughed at himself. He has never seen himself, in Falstaff's phrase, 'like a forked radish carved out of cheese-parings after supper.'"
No, we are sure the Kaiser has never seen himself like that. We rather like this method of telescoping two quotations into one.
"As Cook-General, now; age 30; good wages; deaf; stamp reply."—The Times.
Just the person required to go with the dumb-waiter.
