“Trifles light as air“


“Job printing

,” exclaimed an old woman the other day, as she peered over her spectacles at the advertising page of a country newspaper. “Poor Job! They've kept him printing, week after week, ever since I first learned to read; and if he wasn't the most patient man that ever was he never could have stood it so long, nohow.”

A patron of a certain newspaper

once said, “Mr. Printer, how is it you never call on me for pay for your paper?” “Oh!” said the man of types, “we never ask a gentleman for money.” “Indeed!” the patron replied. “How do you manage to get along when they don’t pay?” “Why,” said the type-sticker, “after a certain time we conclude he is not a gentleman, and we ask him.”

Titled Printers.

M.P.’s, master printers; J.P.’s, journeymen printers.

“Do you work miracles here

?” said a sceptical printer, who had come in to break up a meeting. “No,” said the leader, as he collared the rascal, “but we cast out devils!”

South African proof-readers

die young. The last one succumbed to the description of a fight between the Unabelinijiji and Amaswazlezzi tribes.

“Mamma,” asked a little girl

, peering in between two uncut leaves of the magazine, “how did they ever get the printing in there?”

“We are making a little collection

, remarked the man with the little account book and a bottle dangling about his wrist. “May we hope -er-er—?” “not to-day,” replied the complacent compositor, “don’t care for collections; distributing is more in my line.”

A lady, in whose pronunciation

of English the letter “h” is a rather uncertain quantity, went to a stationer and ordered a number of invitation cards that she proposed to issue for an evening party. She particularly instructed the stationer to print “’igh tea” in the left-hand corner. When the cards came home they all bore the letters “I. T.” in that corner. The printer had concluded that his customer had invented some new contraction after the manner of “R.S.V.P.”

A certain orthy typo

was not very well, so his better half persuaded him to consult a medicine-man, when the following conversation took place: Doctor—Been rather out of sorts lately eh? Typo—Yes, doctor. I am often that way, worse luck. Doctor—Quite out of form, I see. Typo—That’s it, doctor; I can hardly lift my stick, much less manage a forme. Doctor—Schoolmaster, then, I reckon, eh? Typo—No such luck, doctor. And I feel that feverish and restless. Doctor—Yes, yes; of course you do. What you want is a nice composing draught. Typo—Afraid that will not be much good, doctor. Doctor— Oh! well, if you know better than the doctor, young fellow—you know the rest of it, eh? Typo—No offence, doctor, but I have had a pretty strong composing draught already. I have been setting type all the last week while standing between a draughty door and a broken window. That’s the composing draught which has knocked me out of time. Doctor —Printer-man eh? Typo—That’s my doom, doctor. Doctor—Sorry I cannot help you, but the faculty hace thrown up printer-men long ago, as beyond understanding. Better turn schoolmaster. Good-day.

[more to come]