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Show THAT REMINDS ME- i There is. says Today." an eccHjnt storv about Mr. James McNeill Wi is ler going around in artistic circles j list now. which is thoroughly characteristic of " ho gentle master of all that is i t Ine . and flippant in 'art." A certain p"1'"' whose portrait Whistler had. V-failed V-failed to appreciate the work, and fina remarked: "After all. Mr. W histler. ou can't call that a great work of art. "Perhaps not." replied the painter Utu then. you can t call yourself a great worK of nature." Probablv Prince Henry was not told at Niagara the verv best story of that wonder won-der of the world. Pat Kane, settled at Buffalo, imported his brother Mike from Cork, and on his wav home took him to see N:.'ura. Mike, turninr his back on th-.; falis. calmlv lit his pipe. "I Mike, that's Niagara." "I see it." "V ell, but look: isn't it wonderful?" "U hat s wonderful?" "Why. Mike, the wather comin' down." "What's to hinder it.' replied the imperturbable Mike. A tiny girl ot gave a dinner pany m t'other t'-other day, for which twelve covers were ! laid, and that number of small maiden ; sat down to dine. It was a real little girls' dinner, and the little hostess herself her-self presided, sitting at the head of the table. She had been very anxious, in looking forward to it. to do everything as it should be clone. "Mamma," she asked, "shall we say grace?" "No." said mamma; "it will be a very informal dinner, and I think you need not do that." That meant one ceremony the less to be gone through, and was a. relief. But the little lady was anxious to have all her guests know it. So, as they gathered about the table she explained: "Mamma savs that this is such an infernal in-fernal dinner that we need not have grace today." j Tt was a village postoffice. As in many villages, the office was also a general shop. It had, in fact, been the shop of the village, but within a few months a rival establishment had been set up. Yes. another shop had been opened, and the fickle villagers were already beginning to flock to it. Smithers. the postoffice shopkeeper, was furious. One day a villager vil-lager entered and asked for a letter. Smithers eyed him severely. He was one of those who had gone over to the new shop. "No. there's no letter for you." he said. "I told you so yesterday." "But there might be one today," was the not unreasonable suggestion. "Oh. there might, might there?" sneered SimlineTS. wen. turn. ami. "But you haven't looked." "Haven't I?" "No." "Oh. indeed. Well, you've got your answer, and that's enough." "But it ain't" "Con'ound you." screamed the furious Smithers. stepping off his stoo! and fl'nzing himself half over the counter. "Won't you take 'No' for an answer? I tell you again no. no. no. And if you ain't satisfied, you go arid Ket your letters where vnu buy your goods." |