A friend wrote to Mark Twain, asking his opinion on a certain matter, and
received no reply. He waited a few days, and wrote again.

His second letter was also ignored. Then he sent a third note, enclosing a
sheet of paper and a two-cent stamp.

By return mail he received a postal card, on which was the following:
"Paper and stamp received. Please send envelope."--_Boston Herald._

WHAT THE AILMENT WAS.

A New England statesman was referring to the dry humor of the late Senator
Hoar, when he was reminded of the following:

One day Hoar learned that a friend in Worcester who had been thought to
have appendicitis was in reality suffering from acute indigestion.

Whereupon the senator smiled genially. "Really," said he, "that's good
news. I rejoice for my friend that the trouble lies in the table of
contents rather than in the appendix."--_New York Tribune._

THE FARMER'S SYMPATHY.

A large touring automobile containing a man and his wife in a narrow road
met a hay wagon fully loaded. The woman declared that the farmer must back
out, but her husband contended that she was unreasonable.

"But you can't back the automobile so far," she said, "and I don't intend
to move for anybody. He should have seen us."

The husband pointed out that this was impossible, owing to an abrupt turn
in the road.

"I don't care," she insisted, "I won't move if we have to stay here all
night!"

The man in the automobile was starting to argue the matter when the
farmer, who had been sitting quietly on the hay, interrupted.

"Never mind, sir," he exclaimed, "I'll try to back out. I've got one just
like her at home!"--_Philadelphia Ledger._

PROVED.

"Your son is a philosophical student, I hear?"

"Yes, I believe he is. I can't understand what he's talking
about."--_Detroit Free Press._

EQUALITY.

By Matthias Barr.

Come, give me your hand, sir, my friend and my brother.
If honest, why, sure, that's enough!
One hand, if it's true, is as good as another,
No matter how brawny or rough.

Though it toil for a living at hedges or ditches,
Or make for its owner a name,
Or fold in its grasp all the dainties of riches--
If honest, I love it the same.

Not less in the sight of his Heavenly Maker
Is he who must toil for his bread;
Not more in the sight of the mute undertaker
Is majesty shrouded and dead.

Let none of us jeeringly scoff at his neighbor