HE—­“How old are you?”

SHE—­“I’ve just turned twenty-three.”

HE—­“Oh, I see—­thirty-two.”

A judge asked a woman her age.

“Thirty,” she replied.

“You’ve given that age in this court for the last three years.”

“Yes.  I’m not one of those who says one thing today and another thing tomorrow.”

“Willie,” said his mother.  “I wish you would run across the street and see how old Mrs. Brown is this morning.”

“Yes’m,” replied Willie, and a few minutes later he returned and reported: 

“Mrs. Brown says it’s none of your business how old she is.”

“Well, auntie, have you got your photographs yet?”

“Yes, and I sent them back in disgust.”

“Gracious!  How was that?”

“Why, on the back of every photo was written this, ’The original of this is carefully preserved.’”

Answering the question, “When is a woman old?” a famous tragedienne wrote:  “The conceited never; the unhappy too soon, and the wise at the right time.”

When saving for your old age, don’t neglect to lay up a few pleasant thoughts.

“To what do you attribute your long life, Uncle Mose?” asked a newspaper interviewer of a colored centenarian.

“Becuz Ah was bo’n a long time back,” the old gentleman replied.

MURIEL—­“I don’t intend to be married until after I’m thirty.”

MABEL—­“And I don’t intend to be thirty until after I’m married!”—­Life.

  My first gray hair! 
  I never knew that you were there,
  Nor least expected you would come so soon—­
  But you are there;
  From whence you came or where
  I know not, but I care.

  You make me stop and wonder
  Why I find you there to-night,
  Is it some worry or some fright
  That leaves you colorless, and oh, so white? 
  You’ll not be seen, oh, no, not yet. 
  On that your fondest curls you bet,
  For just as long as you are there
  I’ll hide you very neatly—­there! 
  And none will wonder—­only I, at you—­
  My first gray hair.

  —­Wells Hawks.

One great advantage of really being old is that one is beyond being told he is getting old.

Twenty-One Plus

FIRST SUFFRAGIST—­“How old do you think Mabel is?”

SECOND SUFFRAGIST—­“Well, I should say she had lost about seventeen votes.”

A maiden lady of uncertain age became very indignant when the census taker asked how old she was.  “Did you see the girls next door,” she asked—­“The Hill twins?”

“Certainly,” replied the census man.

“And did they tell you their age?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she snapped, “I’m just as old as they are.”

“Oh, very well,” said the census man; and he wrote in his book, “Sarah
Stokes, as old as the Hills.”

  I remember, I remember,
    The fir trees dark and high;
  I used to think their slender tops
    Were close against the sky;
  It was a childish ignorance,
    But now ’tis little joy
  To know I’m farther off from heaven
    Than when I was a boy.