“I once gave a plugged penny to a poor beggar woman,” the stingy man replied. The Recording Angel, assisted by Mother Eve, then glanced over the loose-leaf filing system to verify the claim. “Is that all he has to his credit?” St. Peter asked. “Yes, ’tis all—’tis all,” replied the angel. “Well then, give him back his plugged penny and tell him to go to hell.” * * * * * Thrift Lesson No. 1 “Do you know,” said the Englishman, “I gave my wife a ten-pound note for a birthday present, and she managed to save a sovereign out of it towards our summer holiday. Not bad, eh?” “I dinna think it’s so verra guid,” replied the other. “I reckon ma wife’s mair thrifty.” “How’s that?” “Weel, she gives the bairns a bawbee to do wi’oot their supper, and when they’re in bed and asleep, gangs and taks it frae them. Then, in the mornin’ they have no breakfast for losing it. That’s thrift.” * * * * * This will be a heluva country if it ever goes dry. * * * * * Sprinkle Some Sunshine By F. A. ROBERTSON We never can tell, and we never will know, When it will rain, sunshine or snow; We never can tell, from the cradle to the grave, Whether we are rich or only a slave; Whether we’ll ride in automobiles, Work in the shop or plow in the fields; Perhaps go to bed in vigor and wealth And awake in the morning broken in health. So don’t let pride your judgment beguile, Give all a shake and a pleasant smile; Always be polite, courteous and kind, And thus scatter blessings over mankind. * * * * * Good Old Crow (With apologies to “Old Black Joe.”) Gone are the days of the booze so full and free, And gone are the friends that always drank with me; Gone from this drought to a wetter land I know, I hear their happy voices toasting, Good Old Crow. I’m going, I’m going To a place that’s not so slow. I hear the Cubans gaily toasting Good Old Crow. Why should I stay when my throat is full of pain, Soon will go our smokes, so why should I remain? Dreaming of days of the once sweet long ago, While my friends are sadly calling, Poor Old Joe. —E. N. Hosier. * * * * * During the war a boy from Wiggin, Nova Scotia, who was stationed in Palestine, wrote to his mother as follows: Dear Mother: I am in Palestine where Christ was born and wish to Christ I was in Wiggin where I was born. Your affectionate son. * * * * *