AGE

"How old are you, Tommy?" asked a caller.
"Well, when I'm home I'm five, when I'm in school I'm six, and when I'm on the cars I'm four."
"How effusively sweet that Mrs. Blondey is to you, Jonesy," said Witherell. "What's up? Any tender little romance there?"
"No, indeed—why, that woman hates me," said Jonesy.
"She doesn't show it," said Witherell.
"No; but she knows I know how old she is—we were both born on the same day," said Jonesy, "and she's afraid I'll tell somebody."
As every southerner knows, elderly colored people rarely know how old they are, and almost invariably assume an age much greater than belongs to them. In an Atlanta family there is employed an old chap named Joshua Bolton, who has been with that family and the previous generation for more years than they can remember. In view, therefore, of his advanced age, it was with surprise that his employer received one day an application for a few days off, in order that the old fellow might, as he put it, "go up to de ole State of Virginny" to see his aunt.
"Your aunt must be pretty old," was the employer's comment.
"Yassir," said Joshua. "She's pretty ole now. I reckon she's 'bout a hundred an' ten years ole."
"One hundred and ten! But what on earth is she doing up in Virginia?"
"I don't jest know," explained Joshua, "but I understand she's up dere livin' wif her grandmother."
When "Bob" Burdette was addressing the graduating class of a large eastern college for women, he began his remarks with the usual salutation, "Young ladies of '97." Then in a horrified aside he added, "That's an awful age for a girl!"
THE PARSON (about to improve the golden hour)—"When a man reaches your age, Mr. Dodd, he cannot, in the nature of things, expect to live very much longer, and I—"
THE NONAGENARIAN—"I dunno, parson. I be stronger on my legs than I were when I started!"
A well-meaning Washington florist was the cause of much embarrassment to a young man who was in love with a rich and beautiful girl.
It appears that one afternoon she informed the young man that the next day would be her birthday, whereupon the suitor remarked that he would the next morning send her some roses, one rose for each year.
That night he wrote a note to his florist, ordering the delivery of twenty roses for the young woman. The florist himself filled the order, and, thinking to improve on it, said to his clerk:
"Here's an order from young Jones for twenty roses. He's one of my best customers, so I'll throw in ten more for good measure."—Edwin Tarrisse.
A small boy who had recently passed his fifth birthday was riding in a suburban car with his mother, when they were asked the customary question, "How old is the boy?" After being told the correct age, which did not require a fare, the conductor passed on to the next person.
The boy sat quite still as if pondering over some question, and then, concluding that full information had not been given, called loudly to the conductor, then at the other end of the car: "And mother's thirty-one!"
The late John Bigelow, the patriarch of diplomats and authors, and the no less distinguished physician and author, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, were together, several years ago, at West Point. Dr. Bigelow was then ninety-two, and Dr. Mitchell eighty.
The conversation turned to the subject of age. "I attribute my many years," said Dr. Bigelow, "to the fact that I have been most abstemious. I have eaten sparingly, and have not used tobacco, and have taken little exercise."
"It is just the reverse in my case," explained Dr. Mitchell. "I have eaten just as much as I wished, if I could get it; I have always used tobacco, immoderately at times; and I have always taken a great deal of exercise."
With that, Ninety-Two-Years shook his head at Eighty-Years and said, "Well, you will never live to be an old man!"—Sarah Bache Hodge.