RETALIATION

You know that fellow, Jim McGroiarty, the lad that's always comin' up

and thumpin' ye on the chest and yellin', 'How are ye?'"



"I know him."



"I'll bet he's smashed twinty cigars for me--some of them clear

Havanny--but I'll get even with him now."



"How will you do it?"



"I'll tell ye. Jim always hits me over the vest pocket where I carry my

cigars. He'l hit me just once more. There's no cigar in me vest pocket

this mornin'. Instead of it, there's a stick of dynamite, d'ye mind!"





Once when Henry Ward Beecher was in the midst of an eloquent political

speech some wag in the audience crowed like a cock. It was done to

perfection and the audience was convulsed with laughter. The great

orator's friends felt uneasy as to his reception of the interruption.



But Mr. Beecher stood perfectly calm. He stopped speaking, listened till

the crowing ceased, and while the audience was laughing he pulled out

his watch. Then he said: "That's strange. My watch says it is only ten

o'clock. But there can't be any mistake about it. It must be morning,

for the instincts of the lower animals are absolutely infallible."





An Episcopal clergyman, rector of a fashionable church in one of

Boston's most exclusive suburbs, so as not to be bothered with the

innumerable telephone calls that fall to one in his profession, had his

name left out of the telephone book. A prominent merchant of the same

name, living in the same suburb, was continually annoyed by requests to

officiate at funerals and baptisms. He went to the rector, told his

troubles in a kindly way, and asked the parson to have his name put in

the directory. But without success.



The merchant then determined to complain to the telephone company. As he

was writing the letter, one Saturday evening, the telephone rang and the

timid voice of a young man asked if the Rev. Mr. Blank would marry him

at once. A happy thought came to the merchant: "No, I'm too damn busy

writing my sermon," he replied.