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Two negroes were talking about a recent funeral of a member of their
race, at which funeral there had been a profusion of floral tributes.
Said the cook:

"Dat's all very well, Mandy; but when I dies I don't want no flowers on
my grave. Jes' plant a good old watermelon-vine; an' when she gits ripe,
you come dar, an' don't you eat it, but jes' bus' it on de grave, an'
let de good old juice dribble down thro' de ground!"


"That's rather a handsome mantelpiece you have there, Mr. Binkston,"
said the visitor.

"Yes," replied Mr. Binkston, proudly. "That is a memorial to my wife."

"Why--I was not aware that Mrs. Binkston had passed away," said the
visitor sympathetically.

"Oh no, indeed, she hasn't," smiled Mr. Binkston. "She is serving her
thirtieth sojourn in jail. That mantelpiece is built of the bricks she
was convicted of throwing."





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