“Well, my little man, and what can I do for you?” inquired the churchman.

“The time o’ day, please, your lordship.”

With considerable difficulty the portly bishop extracted his timepiece.

“It is exactly half past five, my lad.”

“Well,” said the boy, setting his feet for a good start, “at ’alf past six you go to ’ell!”—­and he was off like a flash and around the corner.  The bishop, flushed and furious, his watch dangling from its chain, floundered wildly after him.  But as he rounded the corner he ran plump into the outstretched arms of the venerable Bishop of London.

“Oxford, Oxford,” remonstrated that surprised dignitary, “why this unseemly haste?”

Puffing, blowing, spluttering, the outraged Bishop gasped out: 

“That young ragamuffin—­I told him it was half past five—­he—­er—­told me to go to hell at half past six.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Bishop of London with the suspicion of a twinkle in his kindly old eyes, “but why such haste?  You’ve got almost an hour.”

  Skilful alike with tongue and pen,
  He preached to all men everywhere
  The Gospel of the Golden Rule,
  The New Commandment given to men,
  Thinking the deed, and not the creed,
  Would help us in our utmost need.

  —­Longfellow.

See also Burglars; Contribution box; Preaching; Resignation.

CLIMATE

In a certain town the local forecaster of the weather was so often wrong that his predictions became a standing joke, to his no small annoyance, for he was very sensitive.  At length, in despair of living down his reputation, he asked headquarters to transfer him to another station.

A brief correspondance ensued.

“Why,” asked headquarters, “do you wish to be transferred?”

“Because,” the forecaster promptly replied, “the climate doesn’t agree with me.”

CLOTHING

One morning as Mark Twain returned from a neighborhood morning call, sans necktie, his wife met him at the door with the exclamation:  “There, Sam, you have been over to the Stowes’s again without a necktie!  It’s really disgraceful the way you neglect your dress!”

Her husband said nothing, but went up to his room.

A few minutes later his neighbor—­Mrs. S.—­was summoned to the door by a messenger, who presented her with a small box neatly done up.  She opened it and found a black silk necktie, accompanied by the following note:  “Here is a necktie.  Take it out and look at it.  I think I stayed half an hour this morning.  At the end of that time will you kindly return it, as it is the only one I have?—­Mark Twain.”

A man whose trousers bagged badly at the knees was standing on a corner waiting for a car.  A passing Irishman stopped and watched him with great interest for two or three minutes; at last he said: