T he new year of 1918 was not a month old the day I went up to Connecticut to see the Honorable Socrates Potter. I found the famous country lawyer sitting in the very same chair from which, seven years ago, he had told me the story of keeping up with Lizzie. His feet rested peacefully on a table in front of him as he sat reading a law book. Logs were burning in the fireplace. A spaniel dog lay dozing on a rug in front of it. What a delightful flavor of old times and good tobacco was in that inne

T ruth is a great teacher but she often quarrels with the cook,” said Mr. Potter, while looking at his watch. He went to the telephone and called his home and presently began to address his wife as follows: “Hello, Betsy! Say, don't expect me 'till I come. I'm in trouble. A feller came in here and started the war all over again and there's no tellin' when it'll end. I do not want an inconclusive peace.” As he hung up the telephone his stenographer came in to say good night. Mr. Potter took his o

“I used to know a feller here of the name of Sam Hopkins. He worked for a client of mine who ran a lock factory. Sam had been a poor lad—sold newspapers on the street night and morning. My client liked him and took him over to the big shop and taught him the trade of making locks and paid his board until he was able to earn it. Sam became an expert mechanic and shoved money into his coffers every Saturday night. By and by he had a wife and three children and a comfortable home and a goodly amoun

“There was once a man who was born successful. He inherited success and for many years kept it coming his way. Did you ever hear of a man of the name of Shote? Of course not. Neither did I. That's one reason why I am going to call him Shote—John Shote, if you please. My story is strictly true, but I would ask no one to believe the name of its leading character. “John was a great success. Some people called him a great man. Indeed, everybody took off his hat and said: 'How do you do, Mr. Shote?'

“She was a Williamistic widow—the relict of the late Samuel Butters. “She was also a Shrimpstone, of Kalamazoo. My friend, why do you sit there in cold indifference when I mention a fact so inspiring?” “Who were the Shrimpstones?” I inquired. “The Shrimpstones! Jiminy crickets! Is it possible that you are not familiar with the fame of Joshua Shrimpstone?” “I have to plead guilty,” was my answer. “To tell you the truth, so do I,” he went on, “but my own ignorance never surprises me. There is so m

“She had the most curious and painful brainful of sense preferred in the whole show. “When I was a small boy my pocket was one day dispossessed of some green apples, a quantity of horse nails and lead sinkers, a squirt gun, a bird's nest; a piece of beeswax and a hawk's wing. This collection would rank high as an exhibit of eccentric assets, but the contents of this lady's mind belongs in the same alcove. “It is to be credited to Alabama where she was born about sixty years before I met her in P

M r. Potter had got through with the gun. He rose and went to the wash basin as if intending to wash his hands. He turned suddenly as if he thought Germany were more in need of a washing. He strode toward me with a new idea gleaming in his eye and said: “Darn it, I ain't got time to wash now. These Germans claim that they are the freest people in the world, and they are right.” He thumped the table with a shut fist as he resumed his talk. “One kind of liberty thrives under the Hohenzollerns: lic

“In the town of my birth there lived a hen-pecked farmer of the name of Amos Swope. He was a peaceful and contented soul without any good excuse for it. His wife, Ann Maria, was a scold and a fault finder. She had pecked upon Amos for years. When she got tired her sister came and helped her. My father used to say that they reminded him of Philo Scott's pet crane. Philo used to lead him around with a big cork stuck on the end of his bill. “'What is that cork on his bill for?' my father asked. “'S

“He was a big, broad shouldered, brawny man with a rugged manner of speech. He described himself very well when he said to me: I can think as pure white as anybody but I want to talk like a he man.' “He had been wounded by a burst of shrapnel and was not badly hurt, although one side of his face looked as if it had been raked by the claws of a leopard. He had told me that for a day after the accident he had heard a sound in his head 'like two skeletons rassling on a tin roof.' “Who but an Americ