A negro in Sunflower County, Mississippi, was tried and convicted of murder and sentenced for a certain date. After he had been returned to his cell to await the time of execution it would appear that he practically was forgotten. The lawyer, who had been appointed by the court to defend him, lost interest in the case. He neither moved for a new trial nor did he take an appeal from the verdict. Time slipped by until, finally, it dawned upon the condemned darky that, unless he took steps in his own behalf, something of a highly unpleasant nature shortly would be happening. So he sat down and himself wrote a letter to the governor of the state, reading as follows: “Dere Guvnor: “The w’ite folks is got me in the jail here at this place and I is in the middle of a right bad fix. So I teks my pen in hand to ax you please, Mister Guvner, to do something fur me right away? “Because dey is fixin’ to hang me on Friday. And here ’tis Wednesday already!” § 317 Honor Where Honor Was Due A certain distinguished English actor whom we will call Walker-Smith plays a persistent but terrible game of golf. During a visit to this country he visited the links of a country club in Westchester County, New York State. After an especially miserable showing one morning, he flung down his niblick in disgust. “Caddy,” he said, addressing the youth who stood alongside, “that was awful, wasn’t it?” “Purty bad, sir.” “I’ll have to confess that I am the worst golfer in the world,” continued the actor. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” purred the caddy, soothingly. “Did you ever see a worse player than I am?” “No, sir, I never did,” confessed the boy truthfully; “but some of the other boys was tellin’ me yistiddy about a gentleman that must be a worse player than what you are. They said his name was Walker-Smith.” § 318 On Her Own Motive Power I am reliably informed that this one really happened down in Winston-Salem, which is the only town in North Carolina that parts its name with a hyphen. A lady who lives there was my informant. She heard it from her pantry window one summer afternoon. Her cook, Aunt Cilly, was sitting in the kitchen door. The organizer of a new lodge was entreating Aunt Cilly to become a charter member. At length and with eloquence he painted the advantages of belonging to the society. He pointed out its manifold advantages. To begin with, it had a beautiful name made up of noble long words. Its ritual was impressive, its uniform dazzling. Practically every member would hold office, and so forth and so on. In silence Aunt Cilly harkened until the solicitor ran dry. Then she spoke: “Tell me dis, Br’er Sawyer, befo’ you goes any fu’ther—do dis yere lodge of your’n fune’lize de daid?”