Atchoo! Sneezes from a Hilarious Vaudevillian. Niblo George
he hastened to call upon the young man, told him he was very glad he had come into the town, as the old judge was getting superannuated, and then contrived in a sort of neighborly talk to get some legal questions answered.
Then thanking the young sprig of the bar, he put on his hat and was about to leave, when the lawyer asked him if he should charge the advice, for which the fee was five dollars.
The old fellow went into a violent passion and swore he never would pay, but the young lawyer told him he would sue him if he didn't.
So old Si trotted down to see the judge, found him hoeing in his garden, and said:
"That young scamp that's just come into town! I dropped in to make a neighborly call on him and he charged me five dollars for legal advice."
"Served you right," said the judge, who sized up the situation, and saw a chance to pay off an old score; "you had no business to have gone to him."
"But have I got to pay it, judge?"
"Of course you have."
"Well, then," said the man, "I suppose I must," and he started off.
"Hold on!" said the judge; "aren't you going to pay me?"
"Pay you? What for?" said old Si.
"For legal advice."
"What do you charge?"
"Ten dollars."
And consequently as old Si had to settle with both he rather overreached himself in the transaction.
Some of you people doubtless find benefit in visiting the country, but I imagine Snellbaker, who has a gents' furnishing-goods emporium on the corner of a Brooklyn Street, rather carries off the prize in a profitable trip.
I met him the other day, well sunburned, and with a twinkle in his eye.
"I say, Mr. Niblo, did you hear about my luck?" he asked, slapping me on the shoulder.
"Why, no, what's happened now?" I replied, wondering if he had drawn the grand prize in a lottery, or if his children had the measles.
"Well, you know when I went away to the country, I only took my five children and I brought ten home with me."
"How was that?" I asked, in surprise.
"Well, they ate green apples and got doubled up."
Singular what queer things do happen on the electric cars of a great metropolis. The other day I was riding down to the City Hall in a pretty crowded car when something happened.
All the other passengers in the car were men except one; and she was a girl, a nice, pretty, young thing of that peculiar pinkish clarity of complexion more commonly designated "peaches and cream."
The conductor had just collected her fare and was proceeding on his way to the rear platform when the girl grabbed at the left arm of her jacket and emitted a gaspy little scream.
"What is it, miss?" asked the conductor.
"Oh, what shall I do?" moaned the girl. "I've lost it! I've lost my Yale pin!"
And she looked as if she would topple over on the man next to her. The conductor stooped and looked about the floor of the car. All of us passengers did the same. The pretty young thing shook out her skirts vigorously. All hands lent their aid to lift up the gratings and to search the space beneath them. There was, however, no signs of the cherished emblem. About the time everybody was beginning to feel exhausted the girl suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh, I remember now! It's all right. Don't bother any more. I gave it back last night."
"City Hall!" yelled the conductor, and I was glad to get off.
Last time I rode in a trolley car I got a scare for sure. Honestly now, it gave me a queer feeling up and down my spine when I noticed that the car number was 1313, and what made it worse we were just passing Thirteenth Street at the time.
I thought I would mention the fact to the conductor, especially when upon counting the passengers I found there were just that fatal number aboard.
It was the thirteenth of the month too, and bless you if that conductor's number wasn't just 3913.
So I grimly paraded these significant facts before the attention of the knight of the fare register.
"I should think it would make you nervous!" I remarked.
"Only once't that I remember," said the conductor, with a grin.
"When and how?"
"There was thirteen babies in this here car yellin' in thirteen different keys all at the same time," replied the conductor.
Some people are so superstitious, you know, always carrying home old horseshoes and nailing them up over the door – why, a pagan nation like the Japanese have the same custom with other embellishments.
The fun of it is, while some stoutly maintain the horseshoe must be nailed with the forks pointing upward, there are others just as set in their belief that if a chap wants real good luck to swoop down upon his domicile it is absolutely imperative that the opening must be left below.
Why Ketcham actually grew hot under the collar the other day because I sneered when he chanced to mention what horrible bad fortune had come to him since his propitiation to the gods was stolen from his barn door by a wandering dago junk-man.
"Don't you believe then that there's good luck in finding a horseshoe?" he demanded, fiercely.
"Why, yes, under certain conditions," I replied; "for instance when you find it on the winning horse."
Ketcham is quite a gay fellow, and a member of many clubs, so that he can seldom be found home of an evening.
I once remonstrated with him, as a true friend should.
"See here," I said, seriously, "you are out every night until the 'wee sma' hours.' Isn't midnight late enough for you?"
"Well," he replied, "I find when I show up at midnight my wife can talk to me, but when I get home at three, words fail her."
Say, my wife came home from shopping the other day filled with righteous indignation, and, of course, while men are not supposed to have any curiosity, you know, my peace of mind was somewhat disturbed.
I began to have vague fears that perhaps some miserable detective in one of the department stores might have insulted her – perhaps accused her of having too warm an affection for the lace counter.
At length, however, seeing that I would not ask the question she was burning to hear, she burst out with:
"I wish the shopkeepers would be more careful how they put mirrors in conspicuous places."
"What's the matter? Been trying to dodge your own reflection?" I asked, for do you know it was the first time I had ever heard a woman complain of too much looking-glass.
"No; but you know there is one of those triple mirrors in one of the department stores, and poor dear Fido spent fifteen minutes chasing around it trying to find the other dog. I thought I'd never get him out of that store."
Ever been through the Chinese quarter down around Mott Street, where you can smell the incense of the joss-sticks burning before the ugly little idols?
I saw in the paper the other day about a fellow who had come from Korea with samples of idols that he wanted an American firm to manufacture, and it begins to look as though presently our enterprising Yankees might corral this trade along with everything else.
That gave me an inspiration which I set down in verse – if you'd like to hear the result I don't mind one bit, so prepare to weep, for here it goes:
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone —
Some idol inexpensive
He puts upon a throne;
But now we'll teach the heathen
The error of his way,
And sell him modern idols
Made in the U. S. A.
We'll