Around Robbinsdale they get up early. Two farmers, jealous of their rising records, became boastful and one allowed as how he got up before three o’clock. The other rose at two the next morning and called at his neighbor’s house, hoping to find him in bed. The farmer’s wife came to the door. “Where is your husband?” inquired the sleuth. “Why, he was around here early this morning, but I don’t know where he is now.” * * * * * Gus, our hired man, insists that Deacon Kingdon is a good shot. “He is so good with his gun that he hit the bull’s-eye the first time,” Gus exclaimed. “Very good,” exclaimed Maggie, our cook. “Yes, but he had to pay for the bull.” * * * * * Pinkham’s Home Broo Pursue a wild bull frog thirteen miles, carefully gathering the hops. Then add: Ten gallons pickle brine Two quarts shellac One bar home-made soap One pint sweet spirits of nitre. Boil mixture three weeks, then strain through an I. W. W. sock to prevent mixture from working. Bottle and add one jackass to each pint to give it the proper kick. * * * * * This Is For Railroaders Casey, a section boss on the Great Northern railway, in making his report to the superintendent, used considerable profanity, so the superintendent said: “Casey, I have lady stenographers here and if you must use that profanity, after this you must write your own reports.” “A train from Duluth came lickety skoot and passed me hand car by. Some son of a gun left open a switch and it piled them ten cars high.” * * * * * Georges Carpenter lost a battle last July, but he won a greater prize than the golden purse and the coveted belt offered at Jersey City. The handsome Frenchman showed America the smile of Napoleon; the stoical smile of defeat. As one of the multitude witnessing the brief clash of France and America at Boyle’s Thirty Acres, permit me to remark that Carpentier =_did not_= live up to his reputation as great pugilistic champion, but he more than met his reputation as a great red-blooded gentleman. The American won, but the applause usually due the winner was lost in the outburst of surprise of the multitude. Carpentier, instead of hanging his head at the defeat of his hopes and aspirations for the title, hid his sorrow behind a great big boyish smile. He wore that smile through the blood-stained rounds, and it radiated as the gong clanged. The soul of fighting France was behind that smile; the same as the smile of Napoleon as he handed over his army to Wellington at Waterloo, and the likeness of Joffre at the first battle of the Marne. It puzzled his primitive opponent. Dempsey was bewildered—his face revealed his knowledge that behind that smile was a superior intellectual being. * * * * * =_What good is alimony on a cold night?_= * * * * *