A rather turgid orator, noted for his verbosity and heaviness, was once assigned to do some campaigning in a mining camp in the mountains.  There were about fifty miners present when he began; but when, at the end of a couple of hours, he gave no sign of finishing, his listeners dropped away.

Some went back to work, but the majority sought places to quench their thirst, which had been aggravated by the dryness of the discourse.

Finally there was only one auditor left, a dilapidated, weary-looking old fellow.  Fixing his gaze on him, the orator pulled out a large six-shooter and laid it on the table.  The old fellow rose slowly and drawled out: 

“Be you going to shoot if I go?”

“You bet I am,” replied the speaker.  “I’m bound to finish my speech, even if I have to shoot to keep an audience.”

The old fellow sighed in a tired manner, and edged slowly away, saying as he did so: 

“Well, shoot if you want to.  I may jest as well be shot as talked to death.”

The self-made millionaire who had endowed the school had been invited to make the opening speech at the commencement exercises.  He had not often had a chance of speaking before the public and he was resolved to make the most of it.  He dragged his address out most tiresomely, repeating the same thought over and over.  Unable to stand it any longer a couple of boys in the rear of the room slipped out.  A coachman who was waiting outside asked them if the millionaire had finished his speech.

“Gee, yes!” replied the boys, “but he won’t stop.”

Mark Twain once told this story: 

“Some years ago in Hartford, we all went to church one hot, sweltering night to hear the annual report of Mr. Hawley, a city missionary who went around finding people who needed help and didn’t want to ask for it.  He told of the life in cellars, where poverty resided; he gave instances of the heroism and devotion of the poor.  When a man with millions gives, he said, we make a great deal of noise.  It’s a noise in the wrong place, for it’s the widow’s mite that counts.  Well, Hawley worked me up to a great pitch.  I could hardly wait for him to get through.  I had $400 in my pocket.  I wanted to give that and borrow more to give.  You could see greenbacks in every eye.  But instead of passing the plate then, he kept on talking and talking and talking, and as he talked it grew hotter and hotter and hotter, and we grew sleepier and sleepier and sleepier.  My enthusiasm went down, down, down, down—­$100 at a clip—­until finally, when the plate did come around, I stole ten cents out of it.  It all goes to show how a little thing like this can lead to crime.”

See also After dinner speeches; Candidates; Politicians.

PUNISHMENT

A parent who evidently disapproved of corporal punishment wrote the teacher: 

    “Dear Miss:  Don’t hit our Johnnie.  We never do it at home
    except in self-defense.”