Our good friend Gemmell, of the Minnesota and International Railroad, wasn’t the railroad president who thought a gondola was a bird. In fact, the blame is laid to Mr. Casey for suggesting that his company purchase one male and one female gondola, so as to stock the city park of Brainerd, Minn., with a flock or herd or covey of little gondolas. * * * * * Our friend Liebst reports that since his poem, the Hoboes Convention, appeared in the Whiz Bang, he has received several letters from railroad managers requesting permission to name a few box cars after him. Oh, Fame, where is thy sting? * * * * * Ham Tomlin says he thinks he is growing old. He used to be able to kiss his wife 20 times a day but now it take him all day to get up nerve enough to kiss her once. * * * * * Don’t get jealous, boys, but I’ve just finished drinking some stuff that was strong enough to make a rabbit slap a bulldog in the face. * * * * * It’s a lean Jane that has no curves. Pasture Pot Pourri Velvet Joe Says— _Don’t fuss with hubby about droppin’ tobacco ashes on the carpet. Them ashes keep the moths out an’ the hubby in._ * * * * * Some folks would rather Blow their own horns than Listen to Sousa’s Band. * * * * * Greatness does not depend on size. Napoleon if he were living today would never get a job as a cop. * * * * * And Very Nice, Too! A feller was engaged to a girl who was a twin. When asked how he told them apart, he said: “Well, they’re both nice girls.” * * * * * =_Our friend Deegan insists an Irishman dies only when an angel is needed in heaven._= * * * * * How can a man get a headache without brains? * * * * * A Family Dialogue He—I’m not coming home tonight, dearie. She—May I depend on that? (Oh, boy!) * * * * * Let’s Call It the Cockeyed Blues My girl’s eyes are so beautiful they can’t keep from looking at each other. * * * * * =_Remember, boys, the turtle may be slow, but he’s always there for the soup._= * * * * * We could love a girl as “pretty as a picture” provided she had a good frame. * * * * * Honest, This Is True I no’a fel’la named Fawcett, Who went to his cel’la dee’pos’it, But when he got dare, The barrel was bare, And “Gus” was asleep at the Fau’cet. * * * * * Our idea of the height of vanity is to stand in front of a looking glass when you’re asleep. * * * * * Pathetic, Ye Gods, Too Pathetic