16-year-old Helena Muffly wrote exactly 100 years ago today:
Sunday, January 14, 1912: Went to Sunday School this afternoon. Didn’t freeze neither. On the contrary I felt all the better for my walk, which seemed to drive away some of the coldness and bring warmth instead. I devoured a whole lot of stories today, almost a whole paper and part of another.
Her middle-aged granddaughter’s comments 100 years later:
A hundred years ago newspapers and magazines often included humor pages. Perhaps, in addition to reading stories, Grandma read a few jokes. Here are some from the January 1912 issue of Ladies Home Journal:
“Sorry,” said the policeman, “but I’ll have to arrest ye—you been drivin’ along at the rate of fifty miles an hour.”
“You are wrong, my friend,” said the driver. “I say I wasn’t, but here’s a ten-dollar bill that says I wasn’t.
“All right,” returned the policeman, pocketing the money. “With eleven to one against me I ain’t goin’ to subject the county to th’ expense of a trial.”
Why It Was
Two young employees of a florist, who were supposed to be variously employed in the near of the establishment while the boss looks at things in the front were recently startled by the appearance of the “old man” while they were engrossed in a game of checkers.
The proprietor was justly indignant. “How is it,” he demanded, “that I hardly ever find you fellows at work when I come in here?”
I know,” volunteered on of the youths, “it’s on account of those rubber heels you wear.”
How He Changes His Sermons
A little girl of twelve years, the daughter of a clergyman, was asked: “Sadie, does your papa ever peach the same sermon twice?
After thinking a moment Sadie replied, “Yes, I think he does; but I think he hollers at different places.”
Hard On the Other One
One hot summer day a Kentucky beau stopped at a florist’s to order a box of flowers sent to his lady love. At the same time he also purchased a design for the funeral of a friend. On the card for his girl’s box he wrote: “Hoping these may help you bear the heat.” The other card bore the one word: “Sympathy.”
Very soon the girl telephoned: “Thank you so much for the flowers, but why did you write ‘Sympathy’ on the card?”
There was no word from the other card.
The restaurant manager stood behind the cashier’s desk, wearing his stock-in-trade smile for each customer.
An old gentleman came up. “I notice,” said he, fumbling for his wallet, “that you advertise to make your own pies.”
Yes, sir,” answered the manager proudly; “we do.”
“Will you permit me to offer a suggestion?”
“Certainly, sir, certainly. We should be most happy to have you.”
“Well, then, let someone else make ‘em.”