COURTESY


The mayor of a French town had, in accordance with the regulations, to

make out a passport for a rich and highly respectable lady of his

acquaintance, who, in spite of a slight disfigurement, was very vain of

her personal appearance. His native politeness prompted him to gloss

over the defect, and, after a moment's reflection, he wrote among the

items of personal description: "Eyes dark, beautiful, tender,

expressive,
ut one of them missing."





Mrs. Taft, at a diplomatic dinner, had for a neighbor a distinguished

French traveler who boasted a little unduly of his nation's politeness.



"We French," the traveler declared, "are the politest people in the

world. Every one acknowledges it. You Americans are a remarkable nation,

but the French excel you in politeness. You admit it yourself, don't

you?"



Mrs. Taft smiled delicately.



"Yes," she said. "That is our politeness."





Justice Moody was once riding on the platform of a Boston street car

standing next to the gate that protected passengers from cars coming on

the other track. A Boston lady came to the door of the car and, as it

stopped, started toward the gate, which was hidden from her by the man

standing before it.



"Other side, lady," said the conductor.



He was ignored as only a born-and-bred Bostonian can ignore a man. The

lady took another step toward the gate.



"You must get off the other side," said the conductor.



"I wish to get off on this side," came the answer, in tones that

congealed that official. Before he could explain or expostulate Mr.

Moody came to his assistance.



"Stand to one side, gentlemen," he remarked quietly. "The lady wishes to

climb over the gate."



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