Scheherezade took a fresh chew of gum, sat down on one foot and began. "Oh, mighty Caliph, I have one story that would hold you spellbound. I call it my 288 story. But I really can not tell it. I--" "And why not, oh, Scheherezade?" "Oh, Brother to the Sun, and Private Secretary to the Milky Way, I am a modest woman, it is too gross, too gross to relate." Scheherezade covered her face in confusion. "Speak, I command you," said the Caliph, drawing nearer. "You need not mind me. I have read Laura Lean Jibbey and Isben. Go on with 288." "I have said it, oh, Caliph. It is too gross." The Caliph made a sign: Mesrour, the executioner, whirled his scimeter through the air and the head of Scheherezade rolled upon the floor. The Caliph pulled his beard and muttered softly to himself: "I knew all the time that 288 is two gross, but puns don't go anywhere in my jurisdiction at present." (_Houston Daily Post_, Friday morning, November 8, 1895.) Sufficient Provocation "He hit me fust." "He gimme de probumcation, judge." "Nebber touched dat nigger tell he up en hit me wid er cheer." They were two Houston negroes, and they were up before the recorder for fighting. "What did you strike this man with a chair for?" asked the recorder. "I wuz playin' de French hahp, judge, to de ball ob de Sebem 'Mancipated Sons ob de Lebem Virgins, en Sam Hobson he wuz playin' de guitar fur de niggers to dance by. Dis here coon what I hit thinks he kin play de French hahp, too, but he kaint." "Dat's a lie, I kin play--" "Keep still," said the recorder sternly. "Go on with your statement." "I wuz playin' en up comes dis here coon what I hit. He am pow'ful jealous ob my playin' en he wuz mad 'coz de flo' committee selected me to puhfahm. While I wuz playin' dis obstrepelous coon came right close up to me en he say: 'Watermillions be gittin' ripe now in nudder mont'. I keeps on playin'. He says: 'Sposin' you had a great big ripe watermillion, wid red meat en black seeds.' I keeps on playin'. He says: 'You take him en bus him open on a rock, en you scoop up a big han'ful ob de heart, en you look all roun' en nobody come.' I keeps on playin. He says: 'You cram de heart in yo' mouf, en crunch down on hit, en de juice hit run down yo' ahm en hit run down yo' chin to yo' neck, en de sweetness run down you' th'oat.' Den my mouf water so it fill dat French hahp plum full, en de music stop, en de flo' committee look aroun'. Den I up wit a chair en bus' dis coon ober de head, en I flings myself on de mussy ob dis co't, kase, Mars Judge, you knows what dese here sandy lan' watermillions is yo'sef." "Get out of here, both of you," said the recorder. "Next case." (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.) The Bruised Reed