ile and so merry an eye, that a word
of his friendly chaffing was worth more than any amount of formal
praise.

Few of the great world's great despatches contained so much wisdom in so
few words as Nye's historic wire from Washington:

"My friends and money gave out at 3 A.M."

Eugene Field, the lover of little children, and the self-confessed
bibliomaniac, gives us still another sort of laugh--the tender,
indulgent sort. Nothing could be finer than the gentle reminiscence of
"Long Ago," a picture of the lost kingdom of boyhood, which for all its
lightness holds a pathos that clutches one in the throat.

And yet this writer of delicate and subtle humor, this master of tender
verse, had a keen and nimble wit. An ambitious poet once sent him a poem
to read entitled "Why do I live?" and Field immediately wrote back:
"Because you sent your poem by mail."

Laughter is one of the best medicines in the world, and though some
people would make you force it down with a spoon, there is no doubt that
it is a splendid tonic and awakens the appetite for happiness.

Colonel Ingersoll wrote on his photograph which adorns my home: "To the
man who knows that mirth is medicine and laughter lengthens life."

Abraham Lincoln, that divinely tender man, believed that fun was an
intellectual impetus, for he read Artemus Ward to his Cabinet before
reading his famous emancipation proclamation, and laying down his book
marked the place to resume.

Joel Chandler Harris, whose delightful stories of negro life hold such a
high place in American literature, told me a story of an old negro who
claimed that a sense of humor was necessary to happiness in married
life. He said:

"I met a poor old darkey one day, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with
cooking utensils and household effects. Seeing me looking curiously at
him, he shook his head and said:

"'I cain't stand her no longer, boss, I jes' nash'ully cain't stand her
no longer.'

"'What's the matter, uncle?' I inquired.

"'Well, you see, suh, she ain't got no idee o' fun--she won't take a
joke nohow. The other night I went home, an' I been takin' a little jes'
to waam ma heart--das all, jes to waam ma heart--an' I got to de fence,
an' tried to climb it. I got on de top, an' thar I stays; I couldn't git
one way or t'other. Then a gem'en comes along, an' I says, "Would you
min' givin' me a push?" He says, "Which way you want to go?" I says,
"Either way--don't make no dif'unce, jes' so I g