“Mother,” said a twelve-year-old of Baltimore, “did you tell father I wanted a new bicycle?”

“Yes, dear,” said the mother, “I told him; but he said he couldn’t afford to buy you one.”

“Of course he’d say that; but what did you do?”

“I told him how badly you wanted it, and argued in favor of it, but he refused.”

“Argued!  Oh, mother, if it had been something you wanted yourself you’d have cried a little and then you’d have got it.”

Persuasion tips his tongue whene’er he talks.—­Colley Gibber.

Few are open to conviction, but the majority of men are open to persuasion.—­Goethe.

PESSIMISM

TED—­“What’s the difference between a pessimist and a cynic?”

NED—­“The pessimist is without hope, while the cynic is sure you’ll always be able to get a drink if you have the price.”—­Life.

The Pessimist

Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes,
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air,
Quick as a flash ’tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.

  Nothing to comb but hair,
    Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
  Nothing to weep but tears,
    Nothing to bury but dead.

  Nothing to sing but songs,
    Ah, well, alas! alack! 
  Nowhere to go but out,
    Nowhere to come but back.

  Nothing to see but sights,
    Nothing to quench but thirst,
  Nothing to have but what we’ve got
    Thus through life we are cursed.

  Nothing to strike but a gait;
    Everything moves that goes. 
  Nothing at all but common sense
    Can ever withstand these woes.

  —­Ben King.

It was a mile over Mount Clemens.

The pilot of the plane from Selfridge Field was giving a visiting officer his first air voyage.

He cut off the motor.

“See those people?” shouted the pilot.  “Fifty per cent of them think we are going to fall.”

“They’ve got nothing on us,” was the reply that streamed for a half a mile back of the plane; “fifty per cent of us do.”

THE PESSIMIST—­“The best luck any man can have is never to have been born; but that seldom happens to any one.”

Said the weather prophet, “I think it is safest always to predict bad weather.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, people are ready to forgive you if you turn out to be wrong.”

Out at the front two regiments, returning to the trenches, chanced to meet.  There was the usual exchange of wit.

“When’s the bloomin’ war goin’ to end?” asked one north-country lad.

“Dunno,” replied one of the southshires.  “We’ve planted some daffydils in front of our trench.”

“Bloomin’ optimists!” snorted the man from the north.  “We’ve planted acorns.”