PRISONER--"S-s-seventy seven S-s-surrey street. S-s-sir."

MAGISTRATE (to policeman)--"Officer, what is this man charged with?"

OFFICER--"Begorry, yer honor. Oi think he must be charged with soda
wather."

In one of the Brooklyn courts a recent case required the testimony of
a young German immigrant.

"Now, Britzmann," said the lawyer for the plaintiff, "what do you do?"

"Ah vos pretty vell," replied the witness.

"I am not inquiring as to your health. I want to know what you do."

"Vork!"

"Where do you work?" continued the counsel.

"In a vactory."

"What kind of a factory?"

"It vos bretty big vactory?"

"Your honor," said the lawyer, turning to the judge, "if this goes on
we'll need an interpreter." Then he turned to the witness again.

"Now, Britzmann, what do you make in the factory?" he asked.

"You vant to know vot I make in der vactory?"

"Exactly! Tell us what you make."

"Eight dollars a veek."

Then the interpreter got a chance to earn his daily bread.

"Uncle Joe Cannon was asked today what he thought of the outlook for
the Republican party in 1916, and he answered with a story.

"A black man was arrested for horse-stealing while I was
prosecuting-attorney in Vermilion county," he said, "and was placed
on trial after being duly indicted. When his day in court came he
was taken before the judge and I solemnly read the charge in the
indictment to him.

"'Are you guilty or not?' I asked.

"The black man rolled uneasily in his chair. 'Well, boss,' he finally
said, 'ain't dat the very thing we're about to try?'"

JUDGE--"Officer, what's the matter with the prisoner--tell her to stop
that crying--she's been at it fifteen minutes" (more sobs).

OFFICER--"Please, sir, I'm a'thinking she wants to be bailed out."

_See also_ Jury; Witnesses.

COURTSHIP

If he is clean and vigorous, suitable for you and quite perfect in
your opinion; if he is the man you think he is and you want him, don't
put him on a pedestal and worship him as an idol.

Be sensible. Wrap him around your little finger and get a ring on the
next.

Mother was out, and Sister Sue was putting on her best blouse, so
six-year-old Bobby had to entertain Sue's young man. As is the way
with his kind, he began to ply the unfortunate caller with questions.

"Mr. Brown," he began, "what is a popinjay?"

"Why--er--a popinjay is a--eh--vain bird."

"Are you a bird, Mr. Brown?"

"No, of course not."