by Peggy Edmund and Harold W. Williams, compilers
COMPARISONS
A milliner endeavored to sell to a woman one of the last season's hats at a very moderate price. It was a big white picture-hat.
"Law, no, honey!" exclaimed the woman. "I could nevah wear that. I'd look jes' like a blueberry in a pan of milk."
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A well-known author tells of an English spinster who said, as she watched a great actress writhing about the floor as Cleopatra:
"How different from the home life of our late dear queen!"
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"Darling," whispered the ardent suitor, "I lay my fortune at your feet."
"Your fortune?" she replied in surprise. "I didn't know you had one."
"Well, it isn't much of a fortune, but it will look large besides those tiny feet."
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"Girls make me tired," said the fresh young man. "They are always going to palmists to have their hands read."
"Indeed!" said she sweetly; "is that any worse than men going into saloons to get their noses red?"
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A friend once wrote Mark Twain a letter saying that he was in very bad health, and concluding: "Is there anything worse than having toothache and earache at the same time?"
The humorist wrote back: "Yes, rheumatism and Saint Vitus's dance."
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The Rev. Dr. William Emerson, of Boston, son of Ralph Waldo Emerson, recently made a trip through the South, and one Sunday attended a meeting in a church. The preacher was a white man, however, a white man whose first name was George, and evidently a prime favorite with the brethren. When the service was over Dr. Emerson walked home behind two members of the congregation, and overheard this conversation: "Massa George am a mos' pow'ful preacher." "He am dat." "He's mos's pow'ful as Abraham Lincoln." "Huh! He's mo' pow'ful dan Lincoln." "He's mos' 's pow'ful as George Washin'ton." "Huh! He's mo' pow'ful dan Washin'ton." "Massa George ain't quite as pow'ful as God." "N-n-o, not quite. But he's a young man yet."
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Is it possible your pragmatical worship should not know that the comparisons made between wit and wit, courage and courage, beauty and beauty, birth and birth, are always odious and ill taken?— Cervantes .
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