Every time the Government takes a census this story is revived, which means it enjoys a rejuvenated popularity at intervals of ten years. When I catch myself laughing at it, I know that another decade has slipped by.
The story has to do with the enumerator who called at a humble home, and there found the head of the family humped up over a large volume. It developed, in the course of the conversation, that the householder some months before had been induced by a traveling agent to invest in an encyclopedia. To get the worth of his money he had been reading the books of the set pretty constantly ever since.
In reply to the caller’s questions he gave his name and age and his wife’s name and age.
“How many infant children have you?” asked the census taker.
“I’ve got three,” said the citizen. “And that’s all there ever will be, too, you take it from me.”
“What makes you so positive about that?” asked the visitor.
“I’ll tell you why there won’t never be but three,” said the man. “It’s wrote down in this here book that every fourth child born in the world is Chinese.”
