• Author: Unknown
• Editor:
• Newspaper: The Umpire volume V
• Page Number:
• Date: 7 3 1918
• Tags:
• poetry
• ESP news
• gossip
• joke

LET’S ALL BE GLAD

If this war is going to turn us into anation of wrist-watch wearers, we demand that it be stopped right now.

“Say Bill, do you think Friday unlucky?’’ “No. I was born on a Friday.”’ “Well, and what do your parents think?”

Hotel Clerk—“Would you like a room with a bath?” Claude— "Certainly not; this ain’t Saturday night, this is only Tuesday.’’

On the pier a friend asked a departing Sammee to name what book he would like to have sent him. Sammee thinks a moment and says, ‘‘send me a good guide to Berlin.”

Poilu(on short leave) ‘“Where is your Mistress’s maid?’’ Suzette— ‘‘Upstairs, Madam’s hair.” Poilu— ‘‘And Madam—is she with her?”

There have been a number of changes in the Institution lately. We will merely mention one among many. The chaps who used to play checkers etc., on the sunny side of the 12th. Block, have moved over to the shady side.

We don’t doubt that all of us acknowledge the truth of the statement that no one can take their money with them into the next world; but there are some of our number who undoubtedly believe in taking it as far as they can.

Our Stenog’ is a strong believer in conservation. To Illustrate this, he wrote a letter recently on a full sheet of paper, which when he had it finished he discovered it would have gone on a half-sheet. Yes, he re-wrote it on a half-sheet.

An expert in such matters proclaims that potatoes are much better for their being gently boiled. We pass this information on to Mr. Stackhouse for what it is worth, and beg of him not to allow his ‘‘hands’’ to deal to harshly with the ‘‘spuds’’ in future.

One hastens by the twelfth Block corner, Where mandolins are softly twanging; To, by the band-room, hear a horn, or Maybe the bass-drum a-banging. And choirs are heard in sundry places, A-practicing next Sunday’s anthem: Tho of the tune they lose all traces, They never let such matter daunt them. And when the phonographs are going, And our ‘‘Caruso’’ lifts his voice; With half-a-dozen horns a-going, Why boys, the trenches are my choice!