g or queen
either disna ganga to bed wi' a croon on their head. He'd hae kent
they hang it over the back o' a chair."

HOSTESS--"I sometimes wonder, Mr. Highbrow, if there is anything
vainer than you authors about the things you write."

HIGHBROW--"There is, madam; our efforts to sell them."

"No," said the honest man, "I was never strong at literature. To save
my life I could not tell you who wrote 'Gray's Elegy.'"

HENLEY--"How are you getting on with your writing for the magazines?"

PENLEY--"Just holding my own. They send me back as much as I send
them."

Wouldn't it be pleasant if so many authors didn't:

Let their characters converse for hours without any identification
tags, so that you have to turn back three pages and number off odd
speeches in order to find out who's talking.

Overwork the "smart" atmosphere, the suspension points and the
seasonal epidemics of such words as "gripping," "virile," "intrigue,"
"gesture," etc.

Stick up a periscope every now and then, like, "Little did he think
how dearly this trifling error was to cost him," or "She was to meet
this man again, under strange circumstances."

Apply a large hunk of propaganda, like an ice bag, just where the plot
ought to rush ahead.

EDITOR--"Historically, this story is incorrect."

AUTHOR--"But hysterically it is one of the best things I have ever
done."

A man who was a great admirer of Mark Twain was visiting in Hannibal,
Mo. He asked the darkey who was driving him about if he knew where
Huckleberry Finn lived. "No sah, I never heard of the gemmen." Then
he said "Then perhaps you knew Tom Sawyer?" "No, sah, I never met the
gemmen." "But surely you have heard of Puddin'head Wilson?" "Yes, sah,
I've never met him, but I've voted for him twice."

AUTHORSHIP

TED--"I was tempted to read his book by the advertisements, but I was
disappointed."

NED--"That's only natural. The advertisements are better written than
the book."

AUTOMOBILE TOURISTS

"Why do you turn out for every road hog that comes along?" said the
missus, rather crossly. "The right of way is ours, isn't it?"

"Oh, undoubtedly!" answered he, calmly. "As for our turning out,
the reason is plainly suggested in this epitaph which appeared in a
newspaper recently:

"Here lies the body of William Jay,
Who died maintaining his right of way;
He was right, dead right, as he sped along,
But he's just as dead as if he'd been wro