Especially in Cold Weather The new housemaid was, in most respects, quite satisfactory, but the mistress had observed that Bridget in her dusting operations, always appeared to miss a beautiful model of Venus. “Bridget,” cried the mistress at last, “why don’t you dust this figure? See”—and she touched it with her fingers—“she is quite covered with dust.” “Bejabers,” replied Bridget, “I hev been t’inking fer a long time, mem, that she should be covered with something.” * * * * * A mirage is a marriage that never happens. * * * * * Authenticated Military Message Three soldiers—an American, an Englishman and an Irishman—from a trench watched a German airplane overhead. A piece of paper fluttered down and landed in a shell hole a few feet away. Thinking it might be of value, the American crawled out after it. It proved to be a crumpled bit torn from a piece of wrapping paper. Thinking to have some fun with his comrades, he returned and said: “It looks as though it has been of value, all right, but I can’t make it out.” The Englishman said he would try, and after he had investigated he took his cue from the American and admitted that he also was unable to read it. “Faith,” said the Irishman, “I’ll bet I can dissect it,” and he started for the shell hole. In a few minutes he was back. “Did you read it?” he was asked. “Sure and I read it,” he replied, “but all I could make out was that the Germans are badly frightened and their entire rearguard has been wiped out.” * * * * * The Irish lad and Yiddish boy were engaged in verbal combat. First one would insist that his father or mother were better than the other’s. Then it was their pet bulldogs and their teachers. Finally the subject came down to respective churches. “I guess I know that Father Harrity knows more than your Rabbi,” the little Irish boy insisted. “Shure, he does; vy not?” replied the Jew boy. “You tell him everything.” _Our Rural Mail Box_ =Skipper Bill=: Accept my best wishes for the season, and may each festive day find you squatted ’round some board arrangement heaped with viands, digestible and otherwise; and may the platitudes, provoked by the year’s munificence and the fact that you’re alive, be salt to the root of the tree of good fellowship. And may the years to come endear you more to the thousands of American “Bohemians,” who recognize you now as a damn good fellow. Even though the desert remain arid, and we are forced to sip from lips that burn, and betray, for inspiration, we’ll remain in the fight until old Mother Earth calls upon us for our quota of bone and flesh—dust. Yours for the bull-con, E. W. Welty. * * * * * =Ima Cumming=: If, while going through the park at night, you should hear some maiden say, “Sweet, Daddy,” that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s talking to her father. * * * * *