Volume 1 — LITTLE STORIES OF BIG PEOPLE.

EDISON'S "FAKE" CIGARS.

A friend of the inventor says that Thomas A. Edison is very fond of smoking, but that sometimes he becomes so absorbed in work that he even forgets that he has a cigar in his mouth.

Mr. Edison once complained to a man in the tobacco business that he, the inventor, could not account for the rapidity with which the cigars disappeared from a box that he always kept in his office. The "Wizard" was not inclined to think that he smoked them all himself. Finally, he asked the tobacco man what might be done to remedy the situation.

The latter suggested that he make up some cigars—"fake" them, in other words—with a well-known label on the outside. "I'll fill 'em with horsehair and hard rubber," said he. "Then you'll find that there will not be so many missing."

"All right," said Mr. Edison, and he forgot all about the matter.

Several weeks later, when the tobacco man was again calling on the inventor, the latter suddenly said:

"Look here! I thought you were going to fix me up some fake cigars!"

"Why, I did!" exclaimed the other, in hurt surprise.

"When?"

"Don't you remember the flat box with a green label—cigars in bundle form, tied with yellow ribbon?"

Edison smiled reflectively. "Do you know," he finally said, in abashed tones, "I smoked every one of those cigars myself!"—Saturday Evening Post.

THE "DEAD-BEAT" AND THE PASS.

Among after-dinner speakers, Joseph Jefferson ranked as one who could tell a good story in a dry, delightful way. His stories dealt principally with theatrical subjects.

"While starring through Indiana several years ago," he said at a dinner one night, "my manager was approached by a man who had the local reputation of being a pass 'worker,' or dead-beat. He told the usual yarn about being a former actor, and ended by asking for professional courtesies.

"'I would be glad to oblige you,' said the manager, 'but, unfortunately, I haven't a card with me.' Just then a happy thought struck him, and he added: 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I will write the pass where it will be easy for you to show it.'

"Leaning over, with a pencil he wrote 'Pass the bearer' on the fellow's white shirt-front, and signed his name. The beat thanked him and hastened to the gate. The ticket-taker gravely examined the writing and let him take a few steps inside, then called him back, saying, in a loud voice:

"'Hold on, my friend; I forgot. It will be necessary for you to leave that pass with me.'"—Harper's Weekly.

THE HOST WAS PLEASED.

"Edward Everett Hale," said a lawyer, "was one of the guests at a millionaire's dinner.

"The millionaire was a free spender, but he wanted full credit for every dollar put out.

"And, as the dinner progressed, he told his guests what the more expensive dishes had cost. He dwelt especially on the expense of the large and beautiful grapes, each bunch a foot long, each grape bigger than a plum. He told, down to a penny, what he had figured it out that the grapes had cost him apiece.

"The guests looked annoyed. They ate the expensive grapes charily. But Dr. Hale, smiling, extended his plate and said:

"'Would you mind cutting me off about $1.87 worth more, please?'"—New York Tribune.

CHOPIN'S "INSPIRATION."

Many people have heard the "Marche Funèbre" of Chopin, but few are aware that it had its origin in a rather ghastly after-dinner frolic.

The painter Ziem, still living in hale old age, relates how, about fifty-six years ago, he had given a little Bohemian dinner in his studio, which was divided by hangings into three sections. In one section was a skeleton sometimes used by Ziem for "draping" and an old piano covered with a sheet.

During the after-dinner fun Ziem and the painter Ricard crept into this section, and, wrapping the old sheet like a pall around the skeleton, carried it among their comrades, where Polignac seized it, and, wrapping himself with the skeleton in the sheet, sat down to play a queer dance of death at the wheezy old piano.

In the midst of it all, Chopin, who was of the party, was seized with an inspiration, and, seating himself at the piano with an exclamation that brought the roisterers to their senses, extemporized then and there the famous "Marche Funèbre," while his Bohemian auditory applauded in frantic delight.—London Globe.

VERY SUPERIOR CLAY.

The late Eugene Field, while on one of his lecturing tours, entered Philadelphia.

There was some delay at the bridge over the Schuylkill River, and the humorist's attention was attracted by the turbid, coffee-colored stream flowing underneath. He asked the colored porter:

"Don't you people get your drinking-water from this stream?"

"Yassir! Ain't got no yuther place to git it frum, 'cept th' Delaweah. Yassir!"

"I should think," said the humorist, "that you would be afraid to drink such water; especially as the seepage from that cemetery I see on the hill must drain directly into the river and pollute it."

"I reckon yo' all doan' know Philadelphy ve'y well, sah, aw yo'd know dat's Lau'el Hill Cemete'y!" said the son of Ham.

"Well, what of that?" asked Field.

"Dat wattah doan' hu't us Philaydelphians none, sah," replied the native son. "W'y, mos' all of de folkses bu'ied theah aw f'om ouah ve'y best fam'lies!"—Success.

MR. CRAWFORD'S ENDEAVOR.

"W.B. Yeats, the English poet, got off a good thing when he was at the Franklin Inn for lunch the other day," said the Literary Man. "Of course he's all for art for art's sake, but he told of a woman who once said to Marion Crawford, the novelist:

"'Have you ever written anything that will live after you have gone?'

"'Madam,' Crawford replied, 'what I am trying to do is to write something that will enable me to live while I am here.'"—Philadelphia Press.

THE HOT WATER CURE.

Dr. William Osler is always exceedingly precise in his directions to patients. He relates an experience which a brother practitioner once had which illustrates the dangers of lack of precision.

A young man one day visited this doctor and described a common malady that had befallen him.

"The thing for you to do," the physician said, "is to drink hot water an hour before breakfast every morning."

The patient took his leave, and in a week returned.

"Well, how are you feeling?" the physician asked.

"Worse, doctor; worse, if anything," was the reply.

"Ah! Did you follow my advice and drink hot water an hour before breakfast?"

"I did my best, sir," said the young man, "but I couldn't keep it up more'n ten minutes at a stretch."—Woman's Home Companion.

THE UGLIEST FAMILY IN ENGLAND.

It is not unusual in life to see an awkward fellow making a false step. He attempts to recover himself and makes another; the second is followed by a third, and down he comes. Here is an illustration of what we mean:

A gentleman once said to Lord North, "Pray, my lord, who is that extremely ugly woman sitting over there?"

"That's my youngest sister," said his lordship.

"Good gracious!" said the gentleman, "I don't mean her, I mean the next."

"That is my eldest sister," replied the nobleman.

"I protest," cried the unhappy gentleman, "I don't mean her, but the third."

"That is my wife," said Lord North.

"The devil!" ejaculated the poor fellow.

"You may well say that," said Lord North, "for she is as ugly as one. But console yourself, my dear sir, we are the ugliest family in England."—Golden Penny.

THE MAN WHO STRUCK THE KING.

The Earl of Wemyss, who, though an octogenarian, is one of the most fiery members of the Upper House, may boast of being the only man who has ever struck the King in public. It occurred when his majesty was Prince of Wales, and in the House of Lords during a debate.

The prince, as Duke of Cornwall, attended, and sat immediately before Lord Wemyss. The noble lord made a speech, during which he, as usual, became heated, and, in the course of a gesture, brought his fist down bang on His Royal Highness's hat.

The prince, appreciating the force of the earl's argument, retired to a place farther from him. Lord Wemyss was well known, before succeeding to the earldom, as Lord Elcho, an enthusiast of volunteering and rifle-shooting.—Pearson's Weekly.