“About a California man securing a divorce because his wife went through his pockets.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Put it in my pocket.”

A woman missionary in China was taking tea with a mandarin’s eight wives.  The Chinese ladies examined her clothing, her hair, her teeth, and so on, but her feet especially amazed them.

“Why,” cried one, “you can walk or run as well as a man!”

“Yes, to be sure,” said the missionary.

“Can you ride a horse and swim, too?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be as strong as a man!”

“I am.”

“And you wouldn’t let a man beat you—­not even if he was your husband—­would you?”

“Indeed I wouldn’t,” the missionary said.

The mandarin’s eight wives looked at one another, nodding their heads.  Then the oldest said softly: 

“Now I understand why the foreign devil never has more than one wife.  He is afraid!”—­Western Christian Advocate.

PAT—­“I hear your woife is sick, Moike.”

MIKE—­“She is thot.”

PAT—­“Is it dangerous she is?”

MIKE—­“Divil a bit.  She’s too weak to be dangerous any more!”

SON—­“Say, mama, father broke this vase before he went out.”

MOTHER—­“My beautiful majolica vase!  Wait till he comes back, that’s all.”

SON—­“May I stay up till he does?”

“Because a fellow has six talking machines,” said the boarder who wants to be an end man, “it doesn’t follow that he is a Mormon.”

It was a wizened little man who appeared before the judge and charged his wife with cruel and abusive treatment.  His better half was a big, square-jawed woman with a determined eye.

“In the first place, where did you meet this woman who, according to your story, has treated you so dreadfully?” asked the judge.

“Well,” replied the little man, making a brave attempt to glare defiantly at his wife, “I never did meet her.  She just kind of overtook me.”

“Harry, love,” exclaimed Mrs. Knowall to her husband, on his return one evening from the office, “I have b-been d-dreadfully insulted!”

“Insulted?” exclaimed Harry, love.  “By whom?”

“B-by your m-mother,” answered the young wife, bursting into tears.

“My mother, Flora?  Nonsense!  She’s miles away!”

Flora dried her tears.

“I’ll tell you all about it, Harry, love,” she said.  “A letter came to you this morning, addressed in your mother’s writing, so, of course, I—­I opened it.”

“Of course,” repeated Harry, love, dryly.

“It—­it was written to you all the way through.  Do you understand?”

“I understand.  But where does the insult to you come in?”

“It—­it came in the p-p-postscript,” cried the wife, bursting into fresh floods of briny.  “It s-said:  ’P-P-P.  S.—­D-dear Flora, d-don’t f-fail to give this l-letter to Harry.  I w-want him to have it.’” “’Did you git ’em, boss?” he inquired eagerly.