“You would like to know what meal it was?” said the Scotsman.

“Yes, sir; I should like to know,” replied the counsel, sternly and impressively.  “Be sure you tell the truth.”

“Well, then, it was just oatmeal.”

A boy of eight entered the witness-box in tremendous boots, long trousers rolled up so that the baggy knees were at the ankles, and a swallow-tail coat that swept the floor.

“Why are you dressed like that?” asked the judge, both amazed and amused.

The boy took from his pocket the summons and pointed solemnly to the words:  “To appear in his father’s suit.”

The prosecuting attorney had encountered a somewhat difficult witness.  Finally he asked the man if he was acquainted with any of the men on the jury.

“Yes, sir,” announced the witness, “more than half of them.”

“Are you willing to swear that you know more than half of them?” demanded the lawyer.

“Why, if it comes to that, I’m willing to swear that I know more than all of them put together.”

“Do you understand what you are to swear to?” asked the court as a not over-intelligent looking negro took the witness stand.

“Yes, sah, Ah does.  Ah’m to sweah to tell de truf.”

“Yes,” said the Judge; “and what will happen if you do not tell the truth?”

“Well, sah,” was the hesitating answer, “Ah expects ouah side’ll win de case, sah.”

PRISON VISITOR—­“What terrible crime has this man committed?”

JAILER—­“He has done nothing.  He merely happened to be passing when Tough Jim tried to kill a man, and he is held as a witness.”

“Where is Tough Jim?”

“He is out on bail.”

WIVES

“Are you the captain of your soul?”

“Sort of a second lieutenant,” ventured Mr. Henpeck dubiously.

  “Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time of life,
    There’s no longer excuse for thus playing the rake. 
  It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.” 
    “Why, so it is, father,—­whose wife shall I take?”

  —­Thomas Moore.

The younger man had been complaining that he could not get his wife to mend his clothes.

“I asked her to sew a button on this vest last night and she hasn’t touched it,” he said.  At this the older man assumed the air of a patriarch.

“Never ask a woman to mend anything,” he said.  “You haven’t been married very long and I think I can give you some serviceable suggestions.  When I want a shirt mended I take it to my wife and flourish it around a little and say, ‘Where’s that rag-bag?’

“‘What do you want of the rag-bag?’ asks the wife.  Her suspicions are aroused at once.

“‘I want to throw this shirt away.  It’s worn out,’ I say, with a few more flourishes.

“‘Let me see that shirt,’ my wife says, then, ’Now, John, hand it to me at once.’