  At Bilston they always hit the right nail on the head. At Bolton it is impossible for those who run up ticks to bolt off. At Broadstairs the accommodation for stout visitors is unrivalled. At Colchester they are all "natives." At Coventry, strange to say, they can furnish no statistics of the number of persons who have been sent there. At Kidderminster there is certain to be something fresh on the tapis. At Liverpool they are extremely orthodocks. If you write to Newcastle (Staffordshire) take care to under-Lyne the address. At Newmarket they take particular interest in the question of races. At Portsmouth everything is ship-shape. At Rye you will meet none but Rye faces. At Sheffield you will always find a knife and fork laid for you. A GOOD WIT "A GOOD WIT WILL MAKE USE OF ANYTHING"Shakespeare, Henry the Fourth. Scene—A Pit Village. Time—Saturday Night. Barber (to bibulous customer). "Now, sir, if you don't hold your head back, I can't shave you!" Pitman. "A'well, hinney, just cut me hair!" What our Architect has to put up with.—Our Architect (Spotting Sixteenth Century gables). "That's an old bit of work, my friend!" "Oi, sir, yeu be roight, theer, that you be!" O. A. (keen for local tradition). "You don't know exactly how old, I suppose?" "Well, noa, sir; but old it be! Whoi, I's knowed it myself these noine years!" Our Village Industrial Competition.—Husband (just home from the City). "My angel!—crying!—Whatever's the matter?" Wife. "They've—awarded me—prize medal"—(sobbing)—"f' my sponge cake!" Husband (soothingly). "And I'm quite sure it deserv——" Wife (hysterically). "Oh—but—'t said—'twas—for the best specimen—o' concrete!" Our Choir-master (after lamentable failure on part of Pupil). "Confound it! I thought you said you could 'Read at sight'?" Pupil. "So I can. But not first sight." A Truly Rural Dean.—The Dean of Ferns. OUR FÊTE OUR FÊTEVillage Worthy. "It ain't so bad for Slowcombe, mum; but, lor' bless 'ee! 'tain't nothing to what they 'ud do in London!" Village Doctor Village Doctor. "And what do you intend to make of this little man, Mrs. Brisket?" Proud Mother. "Butcher, sir. 'E's bound to be a butcher. Why, 'e 's that fond o' animals, we can 'ardly keep 'im out o' the slaughter-'ouse!" how are you to-day Heaven helps those who help themselves.—Doctor. "Well, John, how are you to-day?" John. "Verra bad, verra bad. I wish Providence 'ud 'ave mussy on me an' take me!" Wife. "'Ow can you expect it to if you won't take the doctor's physic?" CONCLUSIVE CONCLUSIVELodger. "I detect rather a disagreeable smell in the house, Mrs. Jones. Are you sure the drains——" Welsh Landlady. "Oh, it can't be the drains, sir, whatever. There are none, sir!!" I'm seventeen stone seven Yorkshire Farmer (who has laid a wager—to gentleman on weighing machine). "Will ye tell us how mooch ye weigh, mister?" Gentleman. "Well, I'm seventeen stone seven." Farmer. "What did a' tell ye, lads? A' couldn't be wrang, for a's t' best joodge o' swine in t' coontry!" |
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