“T’row me a rope, I say!” he shouted again.  Once more he sank.  A third time he rose struggling.

“Say!” he spluttered angrily, “if one uv you shpalpeens don’t hurry up an’ t’row me a rope I’m goin’ to drop one uv these damn t’ings!”

FAME

Fame is the feeling that you are the constant subject of admiration on the part of people who are not thinking of you.

Many a man thinks he has become famous when he has merely happened to meet an editor who was hard up for material.

Were not this desire of fame very strong, the difficulty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing it when obtained, would be sufficient to deter a man from so vain a pursuit.—­Addison.

FAMILIES

“Yes, sir, our household represents the United Kingdom of Great Britain,” said the proud father of number one to the rector.  “I am English, my wife’s Irish, the nurse is Scotch and the baby wails.”

Mrs. O’Flarity is a scrub lady, and she had been absent from her duties for several days.  Upon her return her employer asked her the reason for her absence.

“Sure, I’ve been carin’ for wan of me sick children,” she replied.

“And how many children have you, Mrs. O’Flarity?” he asked.

“Siven in all,” she replied.  “Four by the third wife of me second husband; three by the second wife of me furst.”

A man descended from an excursion train and was wearily making his way to the street-car, followed by his wife and fourteen children, when a policeman touched him on the shoulder and said: 

“Come along wid me.”

“What for?”

“Blamed if I know; but when ye’re locked up I’ll go back and find out why that crowd was following ye.”

FAREWELLS

  Happy are we met, Happy have we been,
  Happy may we part, and Happy meet again.

A dear old citizen went to the cars the other day to see his daughter off on a journey.  Securing her a seat he passed out of the car and went around to the car window to say a last parting word.  While he was leaving the car the daughter crossed the aisle to speak to a friend, and at the same time a grim old maid took the seat and moved up to the window.

Unaware of the change the old gentleman hurriedly put his head up to the window and said:  “One more kiss, pet.”

In another instant the point of a cotton umbrella was thrust from the window, followed by the wrathful injunction:  “Scat, you gray-headed wretch!”

“I am going to make my farewell tour in Shakespeare.  What shall be the play?  Hamlet?  Macbeth?”

“This is your sixth farewell tour, I believe.”

“Well, yes.”

“I would suggest ’Much Adieu About Nothing’.”

  “Farewell!”
  For in that word—­that fatal word—­howe’er
  We promise—­hope—­believe—­there breathes despair.