"If you can show me!" was the sarcastic answer. "But you can't."

   In the next issue of the paper, the editor ran a line of small type in an obscure corner. It read:

   "What is Jenkins going to do about it?"

   The business man, Jenkins, hastened to seek out the editor next day. He admitted that he was being pestered out of his wits by the curious. He agreed to stand by the editor's explanation in the forthcoming issue, and this was:

   "Jenkins is going to advertise, of course."

   Having once advertised, Jenkins advertises still.

   There are as many aspects of grief as there are persons to mourn. A quality of pathetic and rather grisly humor is to be found in the incident of an English laborer, whose little son died. The vicar on calling to condole with the parents found the father pacing to and fro in the living-room with the tiny body in his arms. As the clergyman spoke phrases of sympathy, the father, with tears streaming down his cheeks, interrupted loudly:

   "Oh, sir, you don't know how I loved that li'll faller. Yus, sir, if it worn't agin the law, I'd keep him, an' have him stuffed, that I would!"

   The woman confessed to her crony:

   "I'm growing old, and I know it. Nowadays, the policeman never takes me by the arm when he escorts me through the traffic."

   The mother called in vain for her young son. Then she searched the ground floor, the first story, the second, and the attic—all in vain. Finally, she climbed to the trap door in the roof, pushed it open, and cried:

   "John Henry, are you out there?"

   An answer came clearly:

   "No, mother. Have you looked in the cellar?"

   The nurse at the front regarded the wounded soldier with a puzzled frown.

   "Your face is perfectly familiar to me," she said, musingly. "But I can't quite place you somehow."

   "Let bygones be bygones, mum," the soldier said weakly. "Yes, mum, I was a policeman."

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