One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic.

“Mr. Pollard,” said he, “my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?”

“I am very sorry, sir,” replied the critic, amiably, “but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it.”

Mr. W.C. Morrow, who used to live in San Jose, California, was addicted to writing ghost stories which made the reader feel as if a stream of lizards, fresh from the ice, were streaking it up his back and hiding in his hair. San Jose was at that time believed to be haunted by the visible spirit of a noted bandit named Vasquez, who had been hanged there. The town was not very well lighted, and it is putting it mildly to say that San Jose was reluctant to be out o’ nights. One particularly dark night two gentlemen were abroad in the loneliest spot within the city limits, talking loudly to keep up their courage, when they came upon Mr. J.J. Owen, a well-known journalist.

“Why, Owen,” said one, “what brings you here on such a night as this? You told me that this is one of Vasquez’ favorite haunts! And you are a believer. Aren’t you afraid to be out?”

“My dear fellow,” the journalist replied with a drear autumnal cadence in his speech, like the moan of a leaf-laden wind, “I am afraid to be in. I have one of Will Morrow’s stories in my pocket and I don’t dare to go where there is light enough to read it.”

Rear-Admiral Schley and Representative Charles F. Joy were standing near the Peace Monument, in Washington, discussing the question, Is success a failure? Mr. Joy suddenly broke off in the middle of an eloquent sentence, exclaiming: “Hello! I’ve heard that band before. Santlemann’s, I think.”
“I don’t hear any band,” said Schley.

“Come to think, I don’t either,” said Joy; “but I see General Miles coming down the avenue, and that pageant always affects me in the same way as a brass band. One has to scrutinize one’s impressions pretty closely, or one will mistake their origin.”

While the Admiral was digesting this hasty meal of philosophy General Miles passed in review, a spectacle of impressive dignity. When the tail of the seeming procession had passed and the two observers had recovered from the transient blindness caused by its effulgence—

“He seems to be enjoying himself,” said the Admiral.

“There is nothing,” assented Joy, thoughtfully, “that he enjoys one-half so well.”
The illustrious statesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark, said:

“Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun. He’ll roast, sure!—he was smoking as I passed him.”

“O, he’s all right,” said Clark, lightly; “he’s an inveterate smoker.”
The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that it was not right.
He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had put on their immortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark’s mule loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another man entered the saloon.

“For mercy’s sake!” he said, taking it with sugar, “do remove that mule, barkeeper: it smells.”
“Yes,” interposed Clark, “that animal has the best nose in Missouri. But if he doesn’t mind, you shouldn’t.”

In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there, apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger. The boys did not have any fun out of Mr. Clarke, who looked at the body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook it, and passed the night in town.

General H.H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommon intelligence but imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing his master’s best uniform coat, epaulettes and all.

“You confounded remote ancestor!” thundered the great strategist, “what do you mean by being out of bed after naps?—and with my coat on!”

Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said:
“Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them?”

General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away.
“Pardon me, please,” said Barry, moving after him; “I was joking of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room fifteen minutes.”

Most of the philosophers were quieted and themselves lynched upon revelation that their own balance sheets had already dipped well into the red screaming promptly past the contested zero value, but that’s little consolation to the families of dead accountants. Many children and widows were forced to stare down into graves with passionate indifference as their beloved’s remains were buried.

The consolation that resolved the difference was that zero does not and can not exist, but that negative zero does and its value is likewise nill. Once this pact was established, all self-proclaimed philosophers who signed on to the “zero isn’t” campaign were summarily executed or sent to hardish labor camps, and the universe was a better place for it, at least according to the victors who ultimately wrote the history books on the matter.

Shallow sea hydro-archaeologists working in the warm ocean waters off the southern coast of Georgia discovered his remains and determined to the surprise of prominent historians of the time that the animatronic President Lincoln was in fact a self-motile robot.