—­Byron.

FASHION

There are two kinds of women:  The fashionable ones and those who are comfortable.—­Tom P. Morgan.

There had been a dressmaker in the house and Minnie had listened to long discussions about the very latest fashions.  That night when she said her prayers, she added a new petition, uttered with unwonted fervency: 

“And, dear Lord, please make us all very stylish.”

  Nothing is thought rare
  Which is not new, and follow’d; yet we know
  That what was worn some twenty years ago
  Comes into grace again.

  —­Beaumont and Fletcher.

As good be out of the World as out of the Fashion.—­Colley Cibber.

FATE

  Fate hit me very hard one day. 
  I cried:  “What is my fault? 
  What have I done?  What causes, pray,
  This unprovoked assault?”
  She paused, then said:  “Darned if I know;
  I really can’t explain.” 
  Then just before she turned to go
  She whacked me once again!

  —­La Touche Hancock.

  So in the Libyan fable it is told
  That once an eagle stricken with a dart,
  Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
  “With our own feathers, not by others’ hands,
  Are we now smitten.”

  —­Aeschylus.

FATHERS

A director of one of the great transcontinental railroads was showing his three-year-old daughter the pictures in a work on natural history.  Pointing to a picture of a zebra, he asked the baby to tell him what it represented.  Baby answered “Coty.”

Pointing to a picture of a tiger in the same way, she answered “Kitty.”  Then a lion, and she answered “Doggy.”  Elated with her seeming quick perception, he then turned to the picture of a Chimpanzee and said: 

“Baby, what is this?”

“Papa.”

FAULTS

  Women’s faults are many,
    Men have only two—­
  Everything they say,
    And everything they do.

  —­Le Crabbe.

FEES

See Tips.

FEET

BIG MAN (with a grouch)—­“Will you be so kind as to get off my feet?”

LITTLE MAN (with a bundle)—­“I’ll try, sir.  Is it much of a walk?”

FIGHTING

“Who gave ye th’ black eye, Jim?”

“Nobody give it t’ me; I had t’ fight fer it.”—­Life.

“There!  You have a black eye, and your nose is bruised, and your coat is torn to bits,” said Mamma, as her youngest appeared at the door.  “How many times have I told you not to play with that bad Jenkins boy?”

“Now, look here, Mother,” said Bobby, “do I look as if we’d been playing?”