The Popular Series of Choice Novels.

WITTY PIECES BY
WITTY PEOPLE

A BOOK OF FUNNY STORIES.

AT PLAY.

ROYAL PUBLISHING CO.,
528 Locust Street, . . . . . . . Philadelphia, Pa.

WITTY PIECES BY WITTY PEOPLE.

A COLLECTION

OF THE

FUNNIEST SAYINGS, BEST JOKES, LAUGHABLE
ANECDOTES, MIRTHFUL
STORIES, ETC., EXTANT.

ILLUSTRATED WITH MANY STRIKING AND AMUSING
CUTS.

Copyrighted, 1894, by Crawford & Co.

PHILADELPHIA, PA.:
ROYAL PUBLISHING CO.

MR. AND MRS. BOWSER.

The Former Decides to Give a Progressive Euchre Party.

Mr. Bowser suddenly looked up from his paper the other evening and asked:

"Why is it that we haven't given a progressive euchre party this season?"

"They have been voted too much trouble," I replied.

"They have, eh? Did any one vote besides you? I saw half a dozen mentioned in the papers last Sunday."

"It's almost impossible to get thirty or forty people together on a certain evening, even if all desire to come. Mrs. Johnson calculated on eight tables and only had enough for five. Mrs. Dart calculated on——"

"Oh, bosh! What does a woman's calculation amount to?"

"But if people can't come and don't come, what are you going to do?"

"They can come, and they will come. It's all in the management."

"Well, I wish you'd try it."

"Do you? Very well, Mrs. Bowser; I shall give a progressive euchre party next week, Wednesday evening. If you'll see to the refreshments I'll see to the people."

"I'll be glad to, of course, but——"

"But what?"

"You must prepare yourself for disappointments."

"Oh, I must! How kind of you to give me warning! Mrs. Bowser, I don't want to seem vain or egotistical, but I'll invite thirty-six people here on that night, and for every one who fails to come I'll give you a $20 bill."

"You are very kind—very kind. I hope the party, will be a great success. You can begin at once."

During the next hour he had the use of the telephone to call up acquaintances, and when he finally hung up the trumpet he turned to me with:

"Anything very dismal about that, Mrs. Bowser? I've got ten couple without moving out of my tracks. I'll have the other eight before to-morrow night."

"That is, they will promise to come."

"Promise! Promise! Do you imagine that all other people are like you? Most folks know their own minds for a day or two ahead, Mrs. Bowser."

When he came home next night he had a list of eighteen couples who had been invited and solemnly promised to come. Mr. Bowser had made it a point to inform each one that the playing would begin at eight sharp, and all had agreed to be on hand fifteen minutes before that hour.

"Voted too much trouble—can't get people enough!" sneered Mr. Bowser as he looked over the list. "It's in the management, Mrs. Bowser—all in the management."

For three days he walked around on tiptoe and took every occasion to brag over me. Then came the first setback. We were at dinner when the telephone rang and Mr. Bowser was asked for.

"Hello, Bowser."

"Yes."

"This is Filbert."

"Yes."

"I wanted to tell you that we can't come down to the party."

"You can't?"

"No. My wife has just remembered that she agreed to go over to Johnson's on that night. Sorry, old fellow, but I hope——"

Mr. Bowser shut him off with a loud bang and returned to me and said:

"Mrs. Bowser, don't you ever darken Filbert's doors again—never! They are liars and dangerous people. I can fill their places in five minutes."

Before he got out of the house there was another ring.

"Hello, Bowser!"

"Yes."

"This is Watkins."

"Yes."

"When I told you the other day we'd be down Wednesday evening, I forgot that our Eva was to have a child's party on the same evening. That knocks us out."

"And you can't come?"

"Of course not. Sorry to disappoint you, old fellow, but of course——"

"Watkins is a liar, Mrs. Bowser—a first class, bold-faced liar!" exclaimed Mr. Bowser, "and you want to cut the whole family as dead as a door nail!"

He went off saying he could get 2,000,000 couples to take their places, and he returned at evening just as the following note came by the hands of a messenger boy:

"Mr. and Mrs. Jackson present their compliments, and regret that the death of an uncle in China will prevent them from being present on Wednesday evening."

Mr. Bowser had begun to turn white when the telephone rang.

"Hello, Bowser!"

"Yes."

"Say, old man, this is a world of change, you know. When I told you we'd come down to that party I never thought about my sister. She's to be married that same evening. Tra-la, old boy; hope you'll have a good time."

"I told you it would be hard work to get so many people out," I remarked.

"Did you, Mrs. Bowser? How kind of you! But I'll show you and these liars and deceivers a thing or two before I get through."

There were no more declinations until Wednesday morning. Then Mr. Bowser was called up by telephone.

"That you, Bowser?"

"Yes."

"Is it to-night you have that party?"

"Yes."

"Pshaw! I thought it was a week from to-night! Well, that knocks us out. We've got to go to the Y. M. C. A. Sorry, you know, but this is a previous engagement."

Mr. Bowser was jumping up and down when there came another ring.

"Hello, Bowser!"

"Yes."

"Nice weather."

"Yes."

"All well down there?"

"Yes."

"Say, Bowser, my wife made a previous engagement for to-night. We've got to go to——"

Mr. Bowser shut him off with a bang and started for the office. During the forenoon I took in two more declinations, and while he was at dinner there was a ring and the old familiar hail:

"Hello, Bowser!"

"Yes."

"Say, Bowser!"

"Yes."

"We expect to be down early to-night."

"Glad of it."

"But it may be that my mother-in-law will come in on the 6.30 train. If she does we can't come."

Mr. Bowser seemed dazed as he hung up the trumpet and left the house. The last blow came at 7 in the evening. The telephone rang and he crawled over to answer.

"Is this Bowser's?"

"Yes."

"Where's the old man?"

"I am Mr. Bowser."

"Oh! so you are. Your voice seems mighty weak to-night. Say, old man, the three couples of us in this terrace were coming down to-night, but we must disappoint you at this late moment. We have had free tickets sent up for the opera, and of course——"

Mr. Bowser walked to the front door, locked it, muffled the bell and turned out the gas. Then he sat down and was very quiet for a couple of hours. At last he looked up and said:

"Mrs. Bowser, some husbands would murder a wife for this!"

"But what have I done?"

"What have you done? Coaxed, bribed and bulldozed me into giving a progressive euchre party, and where's the party? I told you how it would come out, and here we are! Mrs. Bowser, I—I——"

But he was too full for further utterance, and went to bed.

—Detroit Free Press.

Reasonable.

Postmaster—The letter is too heavy; it wants another stamp.

Countrywoman—Why, that will make it heavier still!

—Humoristische.

Actors may have no end of animosities in private life, but they always make up before they appear on the stage.

—Greenville Advocate.

Bromley—Why, Digsby, what's the matter? you look chilled.

Digsby—Right you are, deah boy, the fact is, I attended a social the other evening and everything they served was iced.

By H. C. R.

Dakota has a town named Patronage. Patronage is generally considered a good thing out of which to make capital.

—Boston Transcript.

"Men who have anything in their heads find plenty to do with their hands."—J. Howard, Jr., in N. Y. Press. That's so. We saw a tramp the other day who evidently had something in his head, and both hands were in use.

Jones' better half had presented him with twins. When nurse brought them into the room for inspection the poor man was so bewildered at the multitudinous character of his happiness that he asked: "Am I to choose?"

—Judge.

A Chicago man tried to commit suicide by perforating his head with a bullet. The bullet passed through his skull all right, but did not touch the brain. Before a man goes gunning for his own brains, he ought to acquire the requisite skill by practicing at a pea in a peck measure for a time.

—Binghamton Republican.

Few Things Boston Girls Don't Know.

He—Of course you know what a garter snake is?

She (from Boston)—If you refer to that representative of the serpentine family with the same propensities characteristic to an elastic band used to retain hosiery in a stationery position, I do.

—Binghamton Democrat.

Saved His Honor.

Smith—I was sorry to hear, Brown, that you had failed in business.

Brown—Yes, I struggled hard, but I lost everything, save my honor, thank Heaven, and the property I was wise enough to settle on my wife when I found myself getting into trouble.

—Texas Siftings.

A Bricklayer.

Several Irishmen were disputing one day about the invincibility of their respective powers when one of them remarked:

"Faith, I'm a brick."

"And I'm a bricklayer," said another, giving the first speaker a blow that brought him to the ground.

—Sunday Mercury.

A Business Term.

Clara—How comfortable pants must be. Wish I was a man.

Her Mother—My dear, you shock me. You should say trousers.

"I don't care. Charlie always says pants."

"You forget that Charlie works in a clothing store."

—Clothier and Furnisher.

NOW SHE IS THIN AND HE IS FAT.

The Wonderful Case of the Mullenhausers, Who Bathed at Coney Island.

The familiar figures of Mr. Germain Mullenhauser and his wife are no longer seen daily braving the surf at Coney Island. They have returned to their Brooklyn residence, where their ablutions are made in the bath tub, and it is very doubtful whether any of the seaside resorts will ever see them again. An estrangement has grown up between them, and they are not happy.

Their story is a strange eventful history. Two months ago Mrs. Mullenhauser could readily turn the scales at 210 pounds, while her husband weighed about the ninety pounds necessary to aggregate 300. They were proud of their proportions, viewed collectively, and neither was jealous of the other. But in an evil hour a friend told Mr. Mullenhauser that he was beginning to look like a scarecrow, and slightingly nicknamed him "Praise-God Bare-Bones," in pointed and scornful recognition of the office of deacon in a Brooklyn church. Mr. Mullenhauser consulted a doctor with the view of gaining flesh.

About the same time an attenuated female acquaintance told Mrs. Mullenhauser that if she grew any fatter she would stand a chance of bursting, and would certainly become dropsical. The stout lady was alarmed, and she too, sought the advice of a medical practitioner relative to the best method of shedding some of her superfluous tissue. Neither husband or wife cared to take counsel with the family physician. They stated their cases to different doctors, and only told each other what they had done when their courses had been mapped out for them.

"Dr. Jones seems to be a very intelligent person," said the lady. "He says that by surf bathing I can reduce my weight at the rate of fourteen pounds a week."

"Why, he must be an imbecile," exclaimed her husband, hotly. "If you go wallowing, like a whale, in the ocean it will add just two pounds a day to your bulk. That is what Dr. Brown promises that sea bathing will do for me, and I am going to begin to try it to-morrow."

"Germain, you have been imposed upon by an ignorant quack," replied Mrs. Mullenhauser, severely. "If you risk your light body in those great rollers at Coney Island you will be swept away. Be contented with your small proportions and try to show that you make up in mind what you lack in matter."

"I won't," cried the small man, angrily. "I'll take Dr. Brown's advice, and I'll soon be as fat as you are now. Though Lord knows what size you'll be then, if you follow the directions of that ass, Jones," he added sarcastically.

Thus was made between them the fissure that has since been widening daily. They went down to Coney Island together and engaged board and lodging. They kept up a show of friendliness before the public to save appearances, but they ate their meals in silence and bathed at different parts of the beach.

The other frequenters looked at them with amazement, for a great change was soon perceptible in each. Drs. Brown and Jones were both right. At the end of sixty days their joint weight was still 300 pounds, but Mr. Mullenhauser now tipped the scales at 210 pounds and was threatened with dropsy, while his wife could only turn them at 90 pounds, looked like a scarecrow, and feared to breast the waves, as she had formerly done, lest they should sweep her away.

They fled by different trains from the seaside and tried to consult the slighted family physician, but he refused to be consulted, and advised them, cynically, to see Drs. Jones and Brown. Mrs. Mullenhauser is half a foot taller than her spouse, and much better adapted, anatomically, to carry the heavier burden of flesh. She looks like a greyhound, and he like a puncheon standing on its end. It is likely that before the bathing season returns, Brown, the ignorant quack, will prescribe for the lady, and Jones, the ass, for her husband.

—N. Y. Sun.

Was Qualified.

"Well, Herr Schulze, what are you going to do with your boy?"

"I think I shall have to let him join the police, for I never can find him when I want him!"

—Fliegende Blätter.

Fannie tried very hard to be polite and speak correctly. At church one day she met a little friend who had been sick for some time. In asking about her affliction Fannie said: "Did you enjoy much pain when you were ill?"

—Youth's Companion.

Where They Might Economize.

Bagley—I hear that Mrs. Mosenthal has presented you with twins, Solomon.

Mr. Mosenthal—Yes, it vas a fact, twin boys or I'm a liar.

"Must be quite an expense, eh?"

"Yes, but dere's vone good t'ing I t'ought of. De same photograph will do for little Ikey or little Jakey; dey look so mooch like."

—America.

Just Why.

They lingered in the gloaming
Beneath the star-lit sky,
Yet oft unto his hearing
There came from her a sigh;
He marvelled at her sadness
And longed to ask her why.

Then as he pressed her closer
He lisped: "Why dost thou sigh?"
"Ah, Gus," said she, "I cannot
Tell unto thee a lie;
The trouble is I've eaten
Too much spring chicken pie."

—Birmingham Age-Herald.

She Knew One When She Saw It.

The following is related as an actual occurrence during the presentation of "Virginius" by the amateurs of Macon. Those who have seen the play will doubtless remember the scene where the ashes of Virginia, who has been killed by her father, after which the body was cremated, are brought on the stage in an urn. A young lady in the audience turned to her escort with the remark: "That's a crematory."

"No," said he, "you are mistaken; that is not a crematory."

"Well, I say it is," she remarked; "I guess I know a crematory when I see one."

The curtain drops.

—Americus Recorder.

An Incentive to Study.

"Pa, where was Captain Anson born?"

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"Where was John L. Sullivan born?"

"I don't know that either."

"Pa, I wish you would buy me a history of the United States."

—Chicago Herald.

Connoisseurs.

Mrs. True Genteel—Good morning, Mrs. Carrots. Going to New York to do a little shopping?

Mrs. Gusby Carrots (whose husband has hit Standard Oil and acquired sudden riches)—No, I've just returned. I bought a nice Rubens this morning, and I declare! when I called at my husband's office he told me he had bought a Rembrandt by the same artist yesterday afternoon.

—Once a Week.

THE LIMEKILN CLUB.

How Major Drawbar Jones Escaped Expulsion on Serious Charges.

On the opening of the meeting the secretary announced a communication from Eufaula, Ala., making charges against Major Drawbar Jones, an honorary member of the club. He was charged with:

1. Going on a rabbit hunt while his wife lay at the point of death.

2. Putting burrs under the saddle of his old mule to get up an artificial enthusiasm.

Brother Gardner said that it was a question for debate, and Giveadam Jones arose and observed that he could never vote to convict a brother on the first charge. While there might be no question that Major Jones went out to hunt rabbits while his wife was dying, what was his object? Was it for amusement, or was it to provide her with rabbit soup? The accused should be given the benefit of the doubt. As to charge No. 2, that was a different matter. A man who would put burrs under his saddle, whether that saddle was on a horse or a mule, deserved the severest condemnation.

Waydown Bebee couldn't excuse the Major for going on that rabbit hunt. A dying wife does not care for soup of any sort. As to the burrs under the saddle, they might have got there by accident. Even if they were put there by design, there was no evidence that the mule objected. He owned a mule, whose demeanor could not be changed one iota by all the burrs in the State of Michigan.

Shindig Watkins, Elder Toots, Samuel Shin, and others argued pro and con, and the question of whether the Major should be bounced was put to a vote. The vote stood 43 for, and 44 against, and he thus escaped by the skin of his teeth.

—Detroit Free Press.

A Good Trade.

Prison Keeper—You will have to work here, Moriarty, but you may select any trade you wish.

Prisoner—Well, if it's all the same to you, sor, Oi'd like to be a sailor.

—Munsey's Weekly.

A Poetical Cook.

Ferguson—So our cook is going, is she? Well, I hope the next one will be of a more literary turn.

Mrs. Ferguson—What do you mean by that?

Mr. Ferguson—A more earnest disciple of the art of Browning, don't you know.

—Boston Post.

Knowledge Is Power.

Freddie—Papa, what does "filly" mean?

Papa—(willing to give the boy a lift)—A young mare, Freddie.

Freddie—Well, then, what do they call a young cow, papa?

Papa—(slightly staggered)—Oh! ah! a—er—filly de bœuf.

—Columbia Spectator.

A Good Reason for Stopping a Newspaper.

I happened to be in the office of the Mercantile Review and Live Stock Journal recently in time to hear one of the best reasons ever given for stopping a newspaper.

A German boy entered, removed his hat, and asked:

"Is Mr. Vepsider in?"

"He is," replied Charles H. Webster, looking up from a mass of tissue live stock reports which he was winnowing.

"Vell, Mister Bitters don't want to take dot paber no more. He vos dedt last nide alretty."

The name of the late Mr. Bitters, a cattle dealer, was duly erased from the delivery sheet.

—Buffalo Truth.

With Interest.

"Old Mr. Skinner is a very charitable man, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes; of course. But if he ever casts his bread upon the waters, be sure he expects it to come back a meat sandwich."

—Tid Bits.

A Paris despatch says: "Sarah Bernhardt is overworked." Oh, well; Sarah has one great advantage over all other actresses —she may be overworked, become nervous, take to her bed with a sickness nigh unto death, but she can't fall away any in flesh.

—Kentucky State Journal.

Three Periods of Love.

I.

Sighing like a furnace,
Over ears in love,
Blind in adoration
Of his lady's glove.
Thinks no girl was ever
Quite so sweet as she,
Tells you she's an angel,
Expects you to agree.

II.

Moping and repining,
Gloomy and morose,
Asks the price of poison,
Thinks he'll take a dose.
Women are so fickle,
Love is all a sham,
Marriage is a failure,
Like a broken dam.

III.

Whistling, blithe and cheerful,
Always bright and gay,
Dancing, singing, laughing,
All the livelong day.
Full of fun and frolic
Caught in Fashion's whirl,
Thinks no more of poison—
Got another girl.

—Somerville Journal.

Where Hens Are Useful.

A dozen eggs will get you a yard and a half of gingham at the Cadmus Grange store next week. They have secured an immense line of summer ginghams; in fact, more than they have room for, therefore this unparalleled offer. "The early bird catches the worm."

—La Cygne Journal.

To forget a wrong is the best revenge, particularly if the other fellow is bigger than you.

—Liverpool Post.

Miss Birdie—Is this the place where you recover umbrellas?

Clerk—Yes'sum.

Miss Birdie—Well, I wish you would recover mine. It is a real new one, with a crooked handle, and some one stole it from the Church last Sunday night.

—Chicago Liar.