His first attempt at wit was at a little church in New York, where he was one of the audience. A tableau was being given of “Mary, Queen of Scots,” and in order to make it realistic they had obtained a genuine butcher’s block and a cleaver. As the executioner stood by, the lights all turned low, and his dreadful work in progress, a shrill voice arose from the darkened house:— “Save me a spare-rib.” His readiness in an emergency was shown at Flint, Michigan, when he was before an unresponsive audience. As luck would have it, the gas suddenly went out. “Never mind the gas,” he called to the stage manager. “They can see the points just as well in the dark.” After that he was _en rapport_. The greatest gift God ever made to man, he admitted to me in strict confidence, is the ability to laugh and to make his fellowmen laugh. This more than compensates, he adds, for the reception he gets from some of the cold audiences in New Jersey. I asked him what was the funniest experience he had ever had. “In a lodge room one night with Nat Goodwin,” he replied. “It was, or ought to have been, a solemn occasion, but there was a German present who couldn’t repeat the obligation backward. Nat stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth. I bit my lip trying to keep from laughing. I knew what an awful breach of decorum it would be if we ever gave way to our feelings. We had almost gained perfect control of ourselves, and the beautiful and impressive ceremony was half over, when that confounded Dutchman was asked once more to repeat the oath backward. He made such work of it that I yelled right out, while Nat had a spasm and rolled on the floor. Did they put us out? Well, I guess they did. It took seven or eight apologies to get us back into that lodge.” Equally funny was his experience in London. It was on the occasion of the visit of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery, of Boston. A big dinner was to be given, and the American ambassador and the Prince of Wales were to be there. I asked Wilder to tell me the story of his visit.