AN AWFUL LOT OF PRACTICE

Chauncey Depew spoke one evening during a political campaign at a town in the interior of New York State, which it is not necessary to name. The next morning the chairman of the local committee took him in his carriage for a ride about the place. They had reached the suburbs and were admiring a bit of scenery when a man wearing a blue shirt and carrying a long whip on his shoulder approached from where he had been piloting an ox-team along the middle of the street and said:

“You’re the man that made the rattlin’ speech up at the hall last night, I guess?”

Mr. Depew modestly admitted that he had indulged in some talk at the time and place specified.

“Didn’t you have what you said writ out?” went on the man.

“No,” replied the orator.

“You don’t mean to say you made that all up as you went along?”

“Yes.”

“Jess hopped right up there, took a drink o’ water out of the pitcher, hit the table a whack and waded in without no thinkin’ nor nothing?”

“Well, I suppose you might put it that way.”

“Well, that beats me. You’ll excuse me for stoppin’ you, but what I wanted to say was that your speech convinced me, though I knowed all the time it was the peskiest lie that was ever told. I made up my mind to vote your ticket, but I’d ’a’ been willin’ to bet a peck o’ red apples that no man could stand up and tell such blamed convincin’ lies without havin’ ’em writ out. You must ’a’ had an awful lot o’ practice.”