“A good picture of the woodshed,” I said; “but whose woodshed is it?”

“A wood-shed!” exclaimed my wife; “why, that is your face, John.  And where you think the door is open is only your mouth!”

I looked crestfallen and then I looked at the picture again, but my better nature asserted itself and I made no attempt to strike this defenceless woman.

Then she handed me another picture and said, “John, here is one I took of you and little Peaches!”

Little Peaches is the name of our baby.

We call her Little Peaches because that’s what she is.

I looked at the picture and then I said to big Peaches, “All I can see is Theodore, our colored gardener, walking across lots with a sack of flour on his back!”

“John, you are so stupid,” said my wife.  “How can you expect to see what it is when you are holding the picture upside down?”

I turned the picture around, and then I was quite agreeably surprised.

“It’s immense!” I shouted.  “It’s the real thing, all right!  Why this is aces!  I suppose it is called ’Moonlight On Lake Champlain?’ Did this one come with the camera or did you draw it from memory?”

“The idea of such a thing,” my wife snapped; “can’t you see that you’re holding the picture the wrong way.  Turn it around and you will see yourself and Little Peaches!”

I gave the thing another turn.  “Gee whiz!” I said, “now I have it!  Oh, the limit!  You wished to surprise me with a picture of the sunset at Governor’s Island.  How lovely it is.  See, over here in this corner there’s a bunch of soldiers listening to what’s cooking for supper, and over here is the smoke from the gun that sets the sun—­I like it!”

Then my wife grabbed the picture out of my hands and burst into speech.

When the exercises were over I inquired casually, “Where, my dear, where are the other 21,219 pictures you snapped to-day?”

“Only these two came out good because, don’t you see, I’m an amateur yet,” was her come back.

Then she looked lovingly at the result of her days work and began to peel some bicarbonate of magnesia off her knuckles with the nut cracker.

“Only two out of 21,219—­I think you ought to call it a long shot instead of a snap shot,” I whispered, after I had dodged behind a tree on the lawn.

She went in the house without saying a word and I took out my pocketbook and looked at it wistfully.

JOHN HENRY ON THE GRIP

Say, did you ever spar a few hot rounds with a real attack of grip?

When it comes right down to a case of being a Bad Boy the grip has every other disease slapped to a sit-down.

I had the grip some weeks ago and ever since my system has felt like eight cents worth of cheese.

The medicine sharps tell us that the grip is caused by a little germ which emigrated to this country originally from Russia.