DRUNKARDS


Sing a song of sick gents,

Pockets full of rye,

Four and twenty highballs,

We wish that we might die.





Two booze-fiends were ambling homeward at an early hour, after being out

nearly all night.



"Don't your wife miss you on these occasions?" asked one.



"Not often," replied the other; "she throws pretty straight."




br /> "Where's old Four-Fingered Pete?" asked Alkali Ike. "I ain't seen him

around here since I got back."



"Pete?" said the bartender. "Oh, he went up to Hyena Tongue and got

jagged. Went up to a hotel winder, stuck his head in and hollered

'Fire!' and everybody did."





The Irish talent for repartee has an amusing illustration in Lord

Rossmore's recent book "Things I Can Tell." While acting as magistrate

at an Irish village, Lord Rossmore said to an old offender brought

before him: "You here again?" "Yes, your honor." "What's brought you

here?" "Two policemen, your honor." "Come, come, I know that--drunk

again, I suppose?" "Yes, your honor, both of them."





The colonel came down to breakfast New Year's morning with a bandaged

hand.



"Why, colonel, what's the matter?" they asked.



"Confound it all!" the colonel answered, "we had a little party last

night, and one of the younger men got intoxicated and stepped on my

hand."





MAGISTRATE--"And what was the prisoner doing?"



CONSTABLE--"E were 'avin' a very 'eated argument with a cab driver, yer

worship."



MAGISTRATE--"But that doesn't prove he was drunk."



CONSTABLE--"Ah, but there worn't no cab driver there, yer worship."





A Scotch minister and his servant, who were coming home from a wedding,

began to consider the state into which their potations at the wedding

feast had left them.



"Sandy," said the minister, "just stop a minute here till I go ahead.

Maybe I don't walk very steady and the good wife might remark something

not just right."



He walked ahead of the servant for a short distance and then asked:



"How is it? Am I walking straight?"



"Oh, ay," answered Sandy thickly, "ye're a' recht--but who's that who's

with ye."





A man in a very deep state of intoxication was shouting and kicking most

vigorously at a lamp post, when the noise attracted a near-by policeman.



"What's the matter?" he asked the energetic one.



"Oh, never mind, mishter. Thash all right," was the reply; "I know

she'sh home all right--I shee a light upshtairs."





A pompous little man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a thoughtful brow

boarded a New York elevated train and took the only unoccupied seat. The

man next him had evidently been drinking. For a while the little man

contented himself with merely sniffing contemptuously at his neighbor,

but finally he summoned the guard.



"Conductor," he demanded indignantly, "do you permit drunken people to

ride upon this train?"



"No, sir," replied the guard in a confidential whisper. "But don't say a

word and stay where you are, sir. If ye hadn't told me I'd never have

noticed ye."





A noisy bunch tacked out of their club late one night, and up the

street. They stopped in front of an imposing residence. After

considerable discussion one of them advanced and pounded on the door. A

woman stuck her head out of a second-story window and demanded, none too

sweetly: "What do you want?"



"Ish thish the residence of Mr. Smith?" inquired the man on the steps,

with an elaborate bow.



"It is. What do you want?"



"Ish it possible I have the honor of speakin' to Misshus Smith?"



"Yes. What do you want?"



"Dear Misshus Smith! Good Misshus Smith! Will you--hic--come down an'

pick out Mr. Smith? The resh of us want to go home."





That clever and brilliant genius, McDougall, who represented California

in the United States Senate, was like many others of his class somewhat

addicted to fiery stimulants, and unable to battle long with them

without showing the effect of the struggle. Even in his most exhausted

condition he was, however, brilliant at repartee; but one night, at a

supper of journalists given to the late George D. Prentice, a genius of

the same mold and the same unfortunate habit, he found a foeman worthy

of his steel in General John Cochrane. McDougall had taken offense at

some anti-slavery sentiments which had been uttered--it was in war

times--and late in the evening got on his legs for the tenth time to

make a reply. The spirit did not move him to utterance, however; on the

contrary, it quite deprived him of the power of speech; and after an

ineffectual attempt at speech he suddenly concluded:



"Those are my sentiments, sir, and my name's McDougall."



"I beg the gentleman's pardon," said General Cochrane, springing to his

feet; "but what was that last remark?"



McDougall pronounced it again; "my name's McDougall."



"There must be some error," said Cochrane, gravely. "I have known Mr.

McDougall many years, and there never was a time when as late as twelve

o'clock at night he knew what his name was."





On a pleasant Sunday afternoon an old German and his youngest son were

seated in the village inn. The father had partaken liberally of the

home-brewed beer, and was warning his son against the evils of

intemperance. "Never drink too much, my son. A gentleman stops when he

has enough. To be drunk is a disgrace."



"Yes, Father, but how can I tell when I have enough or am drunk?"



The old man pointed with his finger. "Do you see those two men sitting

in the corner? If you see four men there, you would be drunk."



The boy looked long and earnestly. "Yes, Father, but--but--there is only

one man in that corner."--_W. Karl Hilbrich_.





William R. Hearst, who never touches liquor, had several men in

important positions on his newspapers who were not strangers to

intoxicants. Mr. Hearst has a habit of appearing at his office at

unexpected times and summoning his chiefs of departments for

instructions. One afternoon he sent for Mr. Blank.



"He hasn't come down yet, sir," reported the office boy.



"Please tell Mr. Dash I want to see him."



"He hasn't come down yet either."



"Well, find Mr. Star or Mr. Sun or Mr. Moon--anybody; I want to see one

of them at once."



"Ain't none of 'em here yet, sir. You see there was a celebration last

night and--"



Mr. Hearst sank back in his chair and remarked in his quiet way:



"For a man who don't drink I think I suffer more from the effects of it

than anybody in the world."





"What is a drunken man like, Fool?"



"Like a drowned man, a fool and a madman: one draught above heat makes

him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him."--_Shakespeare_.



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