REMINISCENT TALES 



"See yer didn't fergit yer med'cin', Son, 

 did yer? Yer brung alon' last year a box 

 juss like that 'ere one a-settin' over there 

 in the corner. It's sure tarnel kind in yer 

 to thunk on it." 



"That's all right, Aunty, but listen. It's 

 bully good to see you again and to know 

 that to-morrow we'll be in camp once more. 

 Let's celebrate. I'll get a hammer, open 

 the box, pull a cork and mix a wee nippie, 

 just for luck; how does that hit you?" 



"Son, yer allers wuz a gen'rus an' thought- 

 ful cuss. Now ther hain't be nuthin' in this 

 "ere world I'd ruther do, but, Son, I can't 

 do it nohow. I'm superintendent of that 



G d Sunday school, an' some one 



might ketch a smellin' of my breath." 



Oh! the agony that came to the poor 

 Angler. How much he wanted to laugh yet 

 did not dare. 



The reason given for refusing was a simple 

 and clear one. Emphasis made it stronger, 

 and this was as the good woman intended. 



