BEATRICE—­“Yes, auntie, I was.”

AUNT ETHEL—­“Then, there’s the half crown I promised you.  And now tell me what he did to you.”

BEATRICE—­“He pulled out two of Willie’s teeth!”—­Punch.

He was the small son of a bishop, and his mother was teaching him the meaning of courage.

“Supposing,” she said, “there were twelve boys in one bedroom, and eleven got into bed at once, while the other knelt down to say his prayers, that boy would show true courage.”

“Oh!” said the young hopeful.  “I know something that would be more courageous than that!  Supposing there were twelve bishops in one bedroom, and one got into bed without saying his prayers!”

  Courage, the highest gift, that scorns to bend
  To mean devices for a sordid end. 
  Courage—­an independent spark from Heaven’s bright throne,
  By which the soul stands raised, triumphant, high, alone. 
  Great in itself, not praises of the crowd,
  Above all vice, it stoops not to be proud. 
  Courage, the mighty attribute of powers above,
  By which those great in war, are great in love. 
  The spring of all brave acts is seated here,
  As falsehoods draw their sordid birth from fear.

  —­Farquhar.

COURTESY

The mayor of a French town had, in accordance with the regulations, to make out a passport for a rich and highly respectable lady of his acquaintance, who, in spite of a slight disfigurement, was very vain of her personal appearance.  His native politeness prompted him to gloss over the defect, and, after a moment’s reflection, he wrote among the items of personal description:  “Eyes dark, beautiful, tender, expressive, but one of them missing.”

Mrs. Taft, at a diplomatic dinner, had for a neighbor a distinguished French traveler who boasted a little unduly of his nation’s politeness.

“We French,” the traveler declared, “are the politest people in the world.  Every one acknowledges it.  You Americans are a remarkable nation, but the French excel you in politeness.  You admit it yourself, don’t you?”

Mrs. Taft smiled delicately.

“Yes,” she said.  “That is our politeness.”

Justice Moody was once riding on the platform of a Boston street car standing next to the gate that protected passengers from cars coming on the other track.  A Boston lady came to the door of the car and, as it stopped, started toward the gate, which was hidden from her by the man standing before it.

“Other side, lady,” said the conductor.

He was ignored as only a born-and-bred Bostonian can ignore a man.  The lady took another step toward the gate.

“You must get off the other side,” said the conductor.

“I wish to get off on this side,” came the answer, in tones that congealed that official.  Before he could explain or expostulate Mr. Moody came to his assistance.