Volume 3 — Our Rural Mail Box
Reading edition
C. U. Later—Sunday is the strongest day. All of the rest are weak days.
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Sin O. Nimm—Sorry, I can’t place you, but your breath smells familiar.
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Unicorn—No, Uni, wrinkles do not denote the age of a prune.
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I. C. S. Student—You ask me what is the most advisable course in the mining study to take up. Would suggest that you take up Kalso Mining.
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Reggie—Yes, Reginald, ’tis true, only too true, that if the man in the moon had a baby he’d have the sky rocket.
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Doc. Brady—As an instant relief for sore feet would suggest that you walk on your hands.
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Run-Down Ikey—A sure way to acquire more initiative and pep is to wave a red shirt in front of Pedro.
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Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it.
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Our Exchange Story
In the days when Lord Kitchener, the invincible bachelor, was remaking the British Indian forces, a youthful officer asked for a furlough to go home and be married. Kitchener listened patiently, and then spoke kindly. “Kenilworth, you’re not yet twenty-five. You’re in the midst of a piece of work I value and which you’re doing excellently. Wait a year. By that time you’ll have cleaned the slate and tried out your own mind. If then you still desire to do this thing, speak to me again, and you shall have leave; and I’ll take you back on the staff afterwards.” The year passed, and the officer once more proffered his request. “And you really tell me,” asked Kitchener, “that after thinking it over for twelve months you still wish to marry?” “Yes, sir, very much indeed.” “Adjutant,” commanded Kitchener, “Kenilworth is to have furlough to go to his own wedding. And frankly, my boy, I scarcely thought there was so much constancy in the masculine world.” Kenilworth about faced and marched to the door, but there turned and said, “Thank you, sir. Only it’s not the same woman.”
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It Can’t Be Done
“Dress up,” roared the Topper, “y’ grinnin’ baboon;” “Dress up,” bawled the Topper, “y’ half-witted loon.” “How can I?” asked Riley, adjusting his spur. “How can I dress up on thirty beans per?”
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On the Rocks
Lament of the Gold Striper “God bless you, dearie, I’ll always be waiting,” Before I got back she’d done other mating. With a goop that stayed home without any rating, ’Twas while I was gone that he did all his bating. Sad Refrain: Nothing to think about, nothing to do, Nothing to talk about, none to talk to, Nothing to look at, nothing is new, Nobody to love, no one loves you. Nothing to drink except in the sea, No one to say, “Have one on me,” Bootleg it? Yes, if you have the fee, The label is there, but it’s only weak tea. The sun never shines, nothing but rain, Feel sore all over, nothing but pain, No steps forward, not any gain. Left on the rocks, and lost in the game.
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“You’ve got to admit one thing,” said the man who believes prohibition has gone into effect, “and that is since the country went dry you don’t see so many smashed up automobiles on the country roads.”
“Yes,” answered his friend, as he adjusted his glasses, “a fellow who takes more than one shot of the hootch sold nowadays never gets as far as the city limits.”
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Their jests, their quips, insipid jokes, I’ve heard till I am full; Why can’t the men fling bullion, Instead of flinging bull.
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I’ve been swimming a lot lately and as a result am tanned a dark brown—so dark that my wife won’t let me out of her sight for a minute around the lakes—she’s afraid some women follower of the Stillman divorce case will mistake me for an Indian guide.