There are ways and other ways, but——

“How do you wash your back when you bathe?” queried one fair maiden of her companion on a streetcar, as they rode to work one morning last week. “I just can’t seem to get a satisfactory job on that part of me.”

“Why—wash my back?” came the instant and ready reply. “Why, that’s easy. I just soap my back all over and then lie down in the tub and shimmy.”

He: “Are you free tonight, dearie?”

She: “No, I was last Friday but not tonight.”

Wanted—To buy buggy by lady that is double seated and has patent leather top.

Strayed or Stolen—Young heifer from farmer living east of town with XXXX branded on hind leg.

For Sale or Trade—A big paying hotel and boarding house; 45 roomers, always full.

Do you know W. L. Boyce? If not, you should, as he is the man that marks the mistakes of the doctors. The Monument Man.

Beautiful farmer’s daughter with 425 acres of land, very wealthy, would marry. Send stamp for a reply. Box ——, Tallahassee, Fla.

For Sale—A cow will have calf soon, also some hogs.

Girl for general housework; no laundry work; pleasant room, private bath; $10 a week. Mrs. B. S. Bull, Ken. 1898, 1627 W. 26th street.

Wanted—Lady to sleep nights for company. Would allow use of kitchen if necessary. B-232

Middle-aged widow lady (girl six) wishes light duties, $10 monthly, country preferred, with respectable, good living man having nice, healthy home, piano.

To whom it may concern—Some men advertise for fine stock, but not the case with me; I am looking for a wife. I am a lone man keeping house. I work every day and do not have a chance to find a wife. Any lady wishing to marry will please address me at Johnston City, Ill. Very respectfully, W. C. South.

Wanted—An assistant. Must be good mixer. Lady of good appearance and one with the goods would do. Address ——, care The O. P.

A concern advertises in The Chicago Tribune for an “office boy, 16 years old, with large corporation.” Isn’t that asking a good deal of one so young?

Tommy: “Do you go to bed very early, Mrs. Peck?”

Mrs. Peck: “Yes, Tommy, sometimes—when I feel tired.”

“You wouldn’t go so early if you were married to my father, would you?”

“Oh, Tommy, you funny boy! Why not?”

“’Cause my father told mother that if he were your husband he’d make you sit up and take notice.”

Mr. and Mrs. George D. Stagg, of San Bernardino, Calif., are the proud parents of a baby boy. Mr. Stagg is still in the military hospital.

A recent robbery disclosed the fact that large quantities of whiskey have been sent to insane asylums for “medicinal” purposes.

Men wishing to take the examination for insanity will please leave their names at the front office. The line forms to the right—don’t crowd.

One of our Robbinsdale farmer boys who was active in the big blowout in France was explaining the mysteries of a barb wire entanglement to a sweet country miss. Using the pasture fence and county road ditch to simulate trench conditions, our farmer-doughboy “went over the top” at the zero hour, much to her delectation. She joined in the second attack, but our friend said the entire battle effect was spoiled when her skirt caught in the barbs, and she exclaimed in a very unmilitary manner: “Move over, kiddo, until I blow my nose.”

ELEVEN o’clock p.m.—a dainty little ankle adorned by the lace ruffle of a silken pair of pajamas is drawn under the warm, crisp covers. A little brunette head is nestled more comfortably on the soft pillows—two sleepy gray-blue eyes glance demurely but searchingly around the room. A tired yawn is suppressed by tiny rosy finger-tips—a small round arm reaches upward, and, presto—the lights go out.

A moment of struggling is encountered in the gloom,—follows a turning over, and suddenly the shapely little head is jerked breathlessly under the covers. Part of a minute elapses, then—“Ow, help, murder, police, oh—oh, oh, my God!—a man!”

A frantic struggle to turn on the lights commences, but the poor frightened little slip of a girl can’t find the switch.

An anxious pater rushes in amidst the hysterical screams of his exceedingly excited wifie who just knows that she will collapse!

Two minutes later, with the lights well on, daughter is snuggled securely in pater’s protecting arms,—but where is the man?

A faint sound arises from under the blankets, at which daughter Fanchon screams, and mother, true to her prediction, faints.

Oh! how terrible is the suspense of that fateful night! Presently, the “sound” is converted into an unmistakeable mew—Tabby innocently emerges from the covers, and demure little Fanchon very conventionally cries, “Oh, Hell—it’s only the cat!”

The sad part about fishing trips this year is that the fisherman will have to fish.

It is next to impossible to get a drink in St. Paul—unless you have the price.

John Smith, Cass Lake, Minn., Indian, says he fished on the Rainy river 115 years ago. There’s a mark for some of you fish liars to aim at.

Thrift advocates are advising wives to discard all useless things around the house. It looks bad for a lot of husbands.

Villa supported the rebels until they got into power, but now he is “agin” them. There must be a strain of Irish in him.

They are still selling beer in England at three cents a glass. The fare to England is only $179.75.

The daily papers are running articles about the great slashing in wearing apparel. They must refer to the laundries.

Price slashing continues. Snow shovels, ear muffs and overcoats are coming down in price.

John—I think you must be speaking of pickles; olives are never warped.

C. P.—Use one end of the fork, only.

Agnes—The male should buy the tickets—at least his own. Would suggest that you send me your picture. After all I may be wrong.

L. M. & C. D.—“You are both wrong.” Question 1—It was Richard B. Sheridan the lady was speaking of. Phil Sheridan took the ride and it was Martin Sheridan “who threw things,” as you so aptly put it. Question 2—She must have thought you a couple of mutts.

Mr. B.—I am sorry but I know of no way to keep the ears from flapping. Is Jessie your wife or your horse?

T. U.—You cannot lay the blame to your hostess. One should not expect the chicken to be nailed to the plate.

Maggie—No, tea is not tackled nor is it lapped. Sip perhaps is the word you seek.

Henery—If you must speak of them, use the word “Suspenders.” “Braces” are doubtful, while gallowses, well, you strike me with horror. Gallowses are obsolete in good society. Yes, an old-fashioned man is one who wears suspenders.

Percy—No, you are not expected to kiss the girl in the vestibule. It is not being done these days.

Bill Grabb—If you think you have a good chance with the lady and are sure about her income, hire a taxi. Life is a gamble, anyway. Take a chance; Steve Brodie did.

H. G. P.—We thank you for the two following items. They’re “birds”: A young man and girl eloped and when they reached Pensacola he wired the girl’s mother as follows: “Married Gladys in Pensacola today. Am going to Tampa with her tomorrow.”

You can lead a mule to water, but it takes Bull Durham Tobacer.

Mae—The skins of potatoes become jackets upon leaving the kitchen.

Ed.—Yes, it would be best to use your handkerchief.

Miss Sylvia—If you are unfamiliar with the artichoke turn it down. No book can help you. It is one of the most treacherous traps that a newly-rich-society-climber can fall into. I dare not advise you.

Frank D.—No, Frank, trap is not the correct expression to use in speaking of a lady’s mouth, unless—unless she is your wife.

Harry P.—I am no lawyer. However, I believe that you have no grounds for a law-suit. You didn’t have to hold the baby.

Miss Dorris M.—Please mention the kind of a breath your dancing partner had. Also give his name and address.

James P.—Grapefruit is always uncertain. Write a letter to “the lady on your left.”

Louise—Charles Dickens’ “Curiosity Shop” is a book, not a store. Give up hunting downtown and try a library.

E. O.—A is right. Trousers; not pants.

Cleo—Yes, your touching poem, “Why Should I Suffer and Die,” is very good, but you should practice what you preach.