"Johnny, are you not aware that at your age every little boy is
expected to say something brilliant in reply to my former question?
How can you so dishonour your parents as to neglect this golden
opportunity? Think again."

The little urchin cast his eyes upon the floor and meditated a long
time. Suddenly he raised his face and began to move his lips. There
is no knowing what he might have said, but at that moment his mother
noted the pressing necessity of wringing and mopping his nose, which
she performed with such painful and conscientious singleness of
purpose that Johnny set up a war-whoop like that of a
night-blooming tomcat.

It may be objected that this little tale is neither instructive nor
amusing. I have never seen any stories of bright children that were.
The Child's Provider.

Mr. Goboffle had a small child, no wife, a large dog, and a house.
As he was unable to afford the expense of a nurse, he was accustomed
to leave the child in the care of the dog, who was much attached to
it, while absent at a distant restaurant for his meals, taking the
precaution to lock them up together to prevent kidnapping. One day,
while at his dinner, he crowded a large, hard-boiled potato down
his neck, and it conducted him into eternity. His clay was taken to
the Coroner's, and the great world went on, marrying and giving in
marriage, lying, cheating, and praying, as if he had never existed.

Meantime the dog had, after several days of neglect, forced an
egress through a window, and a neighbouring baker received a call