Two very curious incidents occurred to me recentlyall through the mystification of terms. The newspapers nowadays are full of Italian murders and New Orleans assassinations, and any one whose name ends with an i, like Martinelli, or Morelli, is looked upon with suspicion. So when I was a little ill the other morning, and our Irish butler wondered what was the matter, I said:
"I think, Dennis, that it was that Italian macaroni spaghetti that hurt me."
"That Eyetalyun Spaghetti!" exclaimed Dennis. Faith, and thim bloody Eyetalyuns will hurt annyone."
Later in the day I stepped up to my regular Irish newsdealer to get the morning papers. The old Irishman looked me in the face, and seeing that I looked a little pale, remarked:
"Yez don't look well this morning, Mr. Perkins. Have ye been sick?"
"Well," said I, looking very serious, "I was laid out last week by an attack of peritonitis."
"Attacked by Purtinitist, eh," exclaimed the old man, looking a great deal mixed up mentally. Then, after a moment's pause, and in a very indignant tone, he exclaimed:
"Puritinitist! Why didn't you dhraw your gun and shoot the Eyetalyun blaggard through the heart?"
A cautious doctor will always sit still and let his patient talk, and in a few moments he will know all about his disease. But they tell a story about Dr. Munson, of Baltimore, who was always "too previous." He would glance
