Down at Whitehall, which is in the state of Virginia not many miles from Richmond, a negro farm-hand, whose first name was Levi, met a violent and sudden death. He was ploughing a corn patch when a thunder shower came up. In the midst of the storm, a bolt of lightning struck the tree under which he had taken shelter and scarcely enough of him was left for purposes of burial. Nevertheless, his family and friends did give him an elaborate funeral. A colored minister, with a reputation for eloquence, was imported at considerable cost to preach the sermon. The preacher very soon got into his swing while the congregation swayed and moaned and gave vent to muffled hallelujahs and amens. He came to his climax: “De call fur our pore brother wuz swift an’ suddin. He did not linger fur long months on de bed of pain an’ affliction. He did not suffer an’ waste away. No suh, de Lawd jest teched an electric button in de skies an’ summarized Levi!” § 199 Touching on London Weather The other day _Punch_ had a picture of an old gentleman about to climb into a taxi to escape a terrific snowstorm. “Cabby,” he says, “it’s a miserable winter day, isn’t it?” “Guvinor,” answers the frost-bitten taxi driver, “I pass you my word I’ve been out since early mornin’ and I ain’t seen a single butterfly.” But, off-hand, I’d say the prize under this heading goes to Fred Greig, the New York art critic, for his telling of a personal experience. At the age of twelve he was riding on the front seat of a Fleet Street bus. Although the month was July, rain had been coming down, practically without cessation, for more than a week. An East Indian, garbed all in white, went past, slopping along the sidewalk under an umbrella. The driver aimed his whip at the dark stranger. “Wot’s that?” he asked. “That,” said Young Greig, who at school had been studying up on Oriental history and customs, “is a Parsee.” “And wot’s a Parsee?” “A sun-worshipper.” “Well,” said the driver, “’e must be ’ere on a blinkin’ vacation.” § 200 The Detour in the Bridal Path A young couple, on their honeymoon, spent two days in a small Southern city. When they got off the train an old negro man, who served as porter, runner, chief bell-boy and general factotum for the hotel greeted them at the depot. He took charge of their hand-baggage and led the way for them to an ancient vehicle. As he drove them along the street the young husband took him into their confidence: “Now, look here, Uncle,” he said, “we don’t want anybody here to know that we’ve just been married. Probably some of the other guests will speak to you about us and we count on you to throw them off the track.” “Boss,” said the old man, “don’t you an’ the young lady worry. Jest trust me. ’Taint nobody goin’ fin’ out by axin’ me questions.”