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During the Revolutionary War, there was a small encampment of patriot soldiers the woods. Before they went to bed that night, they tied chickens (they were saving them for a special meal when needed) to the trees around the campground.

Sure enough, some British soldiers were stumbling through the woods that night and frightened the chickens. Their screams and clucks woke the Patriots and they were able to defeat and capture the entire group of British soldiers. A few nights later, the cook prepared the chickens for dinner.

The soldiers said, "This is really good. What do you call it?"

The chef said that in honor of these special chickens who saved their lives, he called it "Chicken Catch a Tory."

A very strange thing happened here in suburbia a few days ago.

This past weekend, I noticed a neighbor of mine repairing his sidewalk.

He had removed a number of broken sections (thanks to numerous trees in his yard). He had rented a cement mixer (portable - not a truck).

He was laying new forms for the cement. He was almost ready to pour the cement which would form a new, flat sidewalk that would no longer be a safety hazard to folks walking to his front door.

This particular neighbor is in his sixties. He and his wife never had children of their own, They both have always been exceptionally nice to the neighborhood children.

On Halloween, they host a "haunted house."

At Christmas, they always have gifts for all the children who live nearby.

At Easter time, they host an Easter egg hunt in their yard.

One would have to look far and wide to find a couple of people who care more for children than they do. It is because of this that I was so shocked this past weekend.

Seeing as how this gentleman has helped me do so many chores around my house in the past few years, I offered my assistance to him in his task. We finished preparing the site for his new sidewalk. Then we mixed the cement. Then, we began pouring the new cement walkway leading to his front door. After laboring for a number of hours, we finished.

To those of you who have never poured cement, it is back-breaking work. A portion of cement the size of a medium bag of dog food weighs more than 100 pounds!

We were both exhausted. We each sat down to admire our work.

Just then, two neighbor children came riding down the street on their bicycles. Seeing the fresh cement walkway, they cut across his lawn, and rode the bikes right across the fresh (still wet) cement, leaving bike tire tracks across the fruit of our labors.

My neighbor, totally out of character, immediately started screaming obscenities at the children. I had never heard him use such language! Especially directed at kids! His tirade lasted a few minutes. He was angrier than I had ever seen him!

When he finally cooled down, I asked him, "Ah, John. I am surprised. I thought that you loved all the children around here."

He looked over at me and responded, "In the abstract, yes. But, not in the concrete!"

Trouser was normally a happy-go-lucky dog. He would chase tennis balls, play with other doggies, and eat his dinner without a fuss. He was a dog without a care.

But on that fateful autumn afternoon, it was to be different.

Trouser's owners were walking him along a trail at the park, when suddenly from out of the bushes jumped a man all dressed in black. He had white paint on his face, and was gesturing annoyingly at Trouser's masters. This strange person spoke not a word, but proceeded to pretend that he was trapped in a box and that he was pulling on a long rope.

Seeing the sheer horror on his masters' faces, Trouser took it upon himself to rectify the situation. With a low growl he jumped and sank his teeth into this annoying pseudo clown's leg.

Trouser immediately got a sickened look in his eyes and began to vomit wildly. He then dragged his tongue all over the ground in an effort to remove the man's foul essence from his mouth.

For Trouser had learned that a mime is a terrible thing to taste.

A man was walking home alone late one night when he hears a BUMP... BUMP... BUMP... behind him.

Walking faster he looks back, and makes out the image of an upright coffin banging its way down the middle of the street towards him.

BUMP... BUMP... BUMP...

Terrified, the man begins to run towards his home, the coffin bouncing quickly behind him ...

faster... faster... BUMP... BUMP... BUMP...

He runs up to his door, fumbles with his keys, opens the door, rushes in, slams and locks the door behind him.

However, the coffin crashes through his door, with the lid of the coffin clapping...

clappity-BUMP... clappity-BUMP... clappity-BUMP...

on the heels of the terrified man.

Rushing upstairs to the bathroom, the man locks himself in. His heart is pounding; his head is reeling; his breath is coming in sobbing gasps.

With a loud CRASH the coffin starts breaking down the door. Bumping and clapping towards him.

The man SCREAMS and reaches for something heavy, anything .. his hand comes to rest on a large bottle of Robitussin.

Desperate, he throws the Robitussin as hard as he can at the apparition... and... the coffin stops!

Because everyone know Robitussin stops the coffin!