Nye and Riley's Wit and Humor (Poems and Yarns)

But I digress. I was speaking of the bank check cipher. At the First National Bank I was shown another of these remarkable indorsements. It read as follows:

Dear Sir: – This will be your pay for chickens and other fowls received up to the first of the present month. Time is working wondrous changes in your chickens. They are not such chickens as we used to get of you before the war. They may be the same chickens, but oh! how changed by the lapse of time! How much more indestructible! How they have learned since then to defy the encroaching tooth of remorseless ages, or any other man! Why do you not have them tender like your squashes? I found a blue poker chip in your butter this week. What shall I credit myself for it? If you would try to work your butter more and your customers less it would be highly appreciated, especially by, yours truly,

W.

Looking at the signature on the check itself, I found it to be that of Mrs. James Wexford, of this city. Knowing Mr. Wexford, a wealthy and influential publisher here, I asked him to-day if he knew anything about this matter. He said that all he knew about it was that his wife had a separate bank account, and had asked him several months ago what was the use of all the blank space on the back of a check, and why it couldn't be used for correspondence with the remittee. Mr. Wexford said he'd bet $500 that his wife had been using her checks that way, for he said he never knew of a woman who could possibly pay postage on a note, remittance or anything else unless every particle of the surface had been written over in a wild, delirious, three-story hand. Later on I found that he was right about it. His wife had been sassing the grocer and the butter-man on the back of her checks. Thus ended the great bank mystery.

I will close this letter with a little incident, the story of which may not be so startling, but it is true. It is a story of child faith. Johnny Quinlan, of Evanston, has the most wonderful confidence in the efficacy of prayer, but he thinks that prayer does not succeed unless it is accompanied with considerable physical strength. He believes that adult prayer is a good thing, but doubts the efficacy of juvenile prayer.

He has wanted a Jersey cow for a good while and tried prayer, but it didn't seem to get to the central office. Last week he went to a neighbor who is a Christian and believer in the efficacy of prayer, also the owner of a Jersey cow.

"Do you believe that prayer will bring me a yaller Jersey cow?" said Johnny.

"Why, yes, of course. Prayer will remove mountains. It will do anything."

"Well, then, suppose you give me the cow you've got and pray for another one."

THE OLD CIDER MILL

If I could be a boy againFor fifteen minutes, or even ten,I'd make a bee-line for that old mill,Hidden by tangled vines down by the rill,Where the apples were piled in heaps all 'round,Red, streaked and yellow all over the ground;And the old sleepy horse goes round and roundAnd turns the wheels while the apples are ground.Straight for that old cider mill I'd start,With light bare feet and lighter heart,A smiling face, a big straw hat,Hum made breeches and all o' that.And when I got there I would just take a peep,To see if old cider mill John was asleep,And if he was I'd go snooking round'Till a great big round rye straw I'd found;I'd straddle a barrel and quick beginTo fill with cider right up to my chin.As old as I am, I can shut my eyesAnd see the yellow-jackets, bees and fliesA-swarming 'round the juicy cheese,And bung-holes; drinking as much as they pleaseI can see the clear sweet cider flowFrom the press above to the tub below,And a-steaming up into my old noseComes the smell that only a cider mill knows.You may talk about your fine old Crow,Your champagne, sherry, and so and so,But of all the drinks of press or still,Give me the juice of that old cider mill,A small boy's energy and suction powerFor just ten minutes or quarter of an hour,And the happiest boy you ever sawYou'd find at the end of that rye straw,And I'll forego forevermoreAll liquors known on this earthly shore.– Anonymous