“Look here, cap,” he demanded, “what kind of a joker is this here head clerk of yours? I can’t travel in the same stateroom with that there Major Reynolds. I can’t and I won’t! So far as that goes, neither one of us likes the idea.” “What complaint have you?” asked the skipper. “Do you object to an army officer for a traveling companion?” “Not generally,” stated the Texan—“only this happens to be the Salvation Army. That there major’s other name is Henrietta!” § 5 Grandfather Laughed at This One On a Georgia plantation a group of darkies went coon hunting one night. Because of his love for the sport they took with them Uncle Sam, the patriarch of the colored quarters. Uncle Sam was over eighty years old and all kinked up with rheumatism. He hobbled along behind the hunters as they filed off through the woods. The dogs “treed” in a sweet gum snag on the edge of Pipemaker Swamp, five miles from home; but when the tree fell there rolled out of the top of it, not a raccoon but a full-grown black bear, full of fight and temper. The pack gave one choral ki-yi of shock and streaked away, yelping as they went; and the two-legged hunters followed, fleeing as fast as their legs would carry them. When they came to a moonlit place in the woods they discovered that Uncle Sam was missing; but they did not go back to look for him—they did not even check up. “Pore ole Unc’ Sam!” bemoaned one of the fugitives, between pants. “His ole laigs must ’a’ give out on him ’foh he went ten jumps. I reckin dat bear’s feastin’ on his bones right dis minute.” “Dat’s so! Dat’s so!” gasped one of the others. “Pore Unc’ Sam!” When they reached the safety of the cotton patches they limped to Uncle Sam’s cottage to break the news to the widow. There was a light in the window; and when they rapped at the door, and it opened, the sight of him who faced them across the threshold made them gasp. “Foh de Lawd!” exclaimed one. “How you git heah?” “Me?” said Uncle Sam calmly, “oh, I come ’long home wid de dawgs.” § 6 The Day Denver Was Surprised Swifty, the High Diver, was imported to give his performance as a crowning feature on the last day of the annual fair and races in a certain small county-seat of interior Vermont. Those who remember the late Swifty may recall that it was his custom, clad in silken tights, to ascend to the top of a slender ladder which reared nearly ninety feet aloft and after poising himself there for a moment to leap forth headlong into air, describing a graceful curve in his downward flight, then with a great splatter and splash to strike in a tank of water but little larger and wider and deeper than the average well-filled family bathtub, and immediately thereafter to emerge from it, in his glittering spangles, amid the plaudits of the admiring multitude. That is to say, he did this until the sad and tragic afternoon when, just as Swifty jumped, some quaint practical joker moved the tank.