George F. Babbit began writing the All Sorts for the Post seven or eight years ago, but relinquished the position a few years later. Babbitt was a graduate of Harvard college, and his witticisms in the Post were of a very brilliant character. The present “funny man” of the Post is Charles Hoyt, better known to his Boston friends as Charley Hoyt. A well-known Boston journalist in a recent article says of him: “He is a well-proportioned man, lithe, active, and nervy in physique, a broad forehead, an open face on which candor is written in every feature, bright, restless eyes, firm mouth and chin, a clear, ruddy complexion, and a voice not loud or strident but clear as a bell in its enunciation. His column of All Sorts in the Post is a fine example of conscientious paragraphing, where neither time nor diverse labor interfere to distract or hurry the writer. It is enjoyed by thousands every day, who laugh at his quaint conceits and genuine wit.” Hoyt is a native of Vermont, and comes of good, old Puritan stock. In early youth he held a public office, being page in the State Senate. In this school his intellect was sharpened, and his naturally retentive memory gathered together and carried away much which has been useful in later years. His knowledge of, and acquaintance with, public men, is wide and varied. In his personal address he is both pleasing and attractive. These are both admirable points in his favor, considering that he is a bachelor, and young at that. Hoyt’s Ragbag stories are very entertaining: RAGBAG’S PRACTICAL JOKE. The other night, after Mr. Ragbag had gone to bed, the idea of a very funny joke occurred to him. It seemed so funny that he went into a paroxysm of laughter, and twisted and squirmed so that he pulled the bed clothes all out at the foot and had to get out to tuck them in again, and got awful cold, and made as much noise as to awaken his wife in the next room, and she, on hearing the cause of the commotion, told Ragbag he was a fool and advised him to go to bed. He did so, but lay awake half the night thinking of the joke, and the next morning Ragbag hastily swallowed his breakfast, and hastened out on the street to play his joke. The first man he met was Gallagher. Gallagher’s business compels him to carry about one hundred keys, and Ragbag knew this. Gallagher was just the man Ragbag wanted to see. Rushing up to Gallagher he said: “Ah, Gallagher, have you lost a key?” “Don’t know,” replied the victim. “Let me see it.” “First see if you have lost one,” said Ragbag.