it pretty plain that the people of Ireland have come to a full stop as it were, and ceased to produce them. I subjoin a few examples culled hap-hazard from a book published so recently as last year: * * * * * A prisoner was trying to explain to a judge and jury his innocence of a certain crime. “It’s not meself,” he cried, “as’ll be afther thrying to desave yer honors. I didn’t hit the poor dead gintleman at all, at all. It was him that sthruck the blow, and the exartion killed him, and, what’s more, I wasn’t there at the time.” “I perceive,” observed the judge, “you are trying to prove an alibi.” “An al-loi-boi!” exclaimed the prisoner, evidently pleased at the big word being suggested to strengthen his defense. “Yes,” said the judge. “Can you tell me what is a good alibi?” “Faith, yer honor,” replied the prisoner, “and it’s a loi boi which the prisoner gets off.” * * * * * “What passed between yourself and the complainant?” inquired the magistrate in a county court. “I think, sor,” replied the worthy O’Brien, “a half-dozen bricks and a lump of paving-stone.” * * * * * “I say, Paddy,” said a tourist to his car-driver, “that is the worst-looking horse you drive I ever saw. Why don’t you fatten him up?” “Fat him up, is it?” queried the Jehu, “faix, the poor baste can hardly carry the little mate that’s on him now!” * * * * * “Have you had any experience with children?” inquired a lady of a prospective nurse. “Oh, yes, mum,” replied the woman, blandly. “Oi used to be a child mesilf wanst.” A jarvey, who was driving through the streets of Dublin, met with an obstruction in the shape of a man riding a donkey. “Now then, you two!” he exclaimed. * * * * * An Irish member, named Dogherty, who subsequently became Chief-Justice of Ireland, asked Canning what he thought of his maiden speech. “The only fault I can find with it,” said Canning, “is that you called the Speaker sir, too often.” “My dear fellow,” replied Dogherty, “if you knew the mental state I was in while speaking, you would not wonder if I had called him ma’am.” * * * * * “Get on, man; get on!” said a traveler to his car-driver. “Wake up your nag!” “Shure, sor,” was the reply, “I haven’t the heart to bate him.” “What’s the matter with him?” inquired the traveler; “is he sick?” “No, sor,” answered the jarvey, “he’s not sick, but it’s unlucky he is, sor, unlucky! You see, sor, every morning, before I put him i’ the car, I tosses him whether he’ll have a feed of oats or I’ll have a dhrink of whisky, an’ the poor baste has lost five mornings running!” * * * * *