Kitabı oku: «Mollie and the Unwiseman Abroad», sayfa 5
VII
THE UNWISEMAN VISITS THE BRITISH MUSEUM
"What's the matter, Mr. Me?" asked Mollie one morning after they had been in London for a week. "You look very gloomy this morning. Aren't you feeling well?"
"O I'm feeling all right physically," said the Unwiseman. "But I'm just chock full of gloom just the same and I want to get away from here as soon as I can. Everything in the whole place is bogus."
"Oh Mr. Me! you mustn't say that!" protested Mollie.
"Well if it ain't there's something mighty queer about it anyhow, and I just don't like it," said the Unwiseman. "I know they've fooled me right and left, and I'm just glad George Washington licked 'em at Bunco Hill and pushed 'em off our continent on the double quick."
"What is the particular trouble?" asked Mollie.
"Well, in the first place," began the old gentleman, "that King we saw the other day wasn't a real king at all – just a sort of decoy king they keep outside the Palace to shoo people off and keep them from bothering the real one; and in the second place the Prince of Whales aint' a whale at all. He ain't even a shiner. He's just a man. I don't see what right they have to fool people the way they do. They wouldn't dare run a circus that way at home."
Mollie laughed, and Whistlebinkie squeaked with joy.
"You didn't really expect him to be a whale, did you?" Mollie asked.
"Why of course I did," said the Unwiseman. "Why not? They claim over here that Britannia rules the waves, don't they?"
"They certainly do," said Mollie gravely.
"Then it's natural to suppose they have a big fish somewhere to represent 'em," said the Unwiseman. "The King can't go sloshing around under the ocean saying howdido to porpoises and shad and fellers like that. It's too wet and he'd catch his death of cold, so I naturally thought the Prince of Whales looked after that end of the business, and now I find he's not even a sardine. It's perfectly disgusting."
"I knew-he-wasn't-a-fish," said Whistlebinkie.
"Well you always were smarter than anybody else," growled the Unwiseman. "You know a Roc's egg isn't a pebble without anybody telling you I guess. You were born with the multiplication table in your hat, but as for me I'm glad I've got something to learn. I guess carrying so much real live information around in your hat is what makes you squeak so."
The old gentleman paused a moment and then he went on again.
"What I'm worrying most about is that mock king," he said. "Here I've gone and invited him over to America, and offered to present him with the freedom of my kitchen stove and introduce him to my burgular. Suppose he comes? What on earth am I going to do? I can't introduce him as the real king, and if I pass him off for a bogus king everybody'll laugh at me, and accuse me of bringing my burgular into bad company."
"How did you find it out?" asked Mollie sadly, for she had already written home to her friends giving them a full account of their reception by his majesty.
"Why I went up to the Palace this morning to see why he hadn't answered my letter and this time there was another man there, wearing the same suit of clothes, bear-skin hat, red jacket and all," explained the Unwiseman. "I was just flabbergasted and then it flashed over me all of a sudden that there might be a big conspiracy on hand to kidnap the real king and put his enemies on the throne. It was all so plain. Certainly no king would let anybody else wear his clothes, so this chap must have stolen them and was trying to pass himself off for Edward S. King himself."
"Mercy!" cried Mollie. "What did you do? Call for help?"
"No sirree – I mean no ma'am!" returned the Unwiseman. "That wouldn't help matters any. I ran down the street to a telephone office and rang up the palace. I told 'em the king had been kidnapped and that a bogus king was paradin' up and down in front of the Palace with the royal robes on. I liked that first king so much I couldn't bear to think of his lyin' off somewhere in a dungeon-cell waiting to have his head chopped off. And what do you suppose happened? Instead of arresting the mock king they wanted to arrest me, and I think they would have if a nice old gentleman in a high hat and a frock coat like mine, only newer, hadn't driven up at that minute, bowing to everybody, and entered the Palace yard with the whole crowd giving him three cheers. Then what do you suppose? They tried to pass him off on me as the real king – why he was plainer than those muffins and looked for all the world like a good natured life insurance agent over home."
"And they didn't arrest you?" asked Mollie, anxiously.
"No indeed," laughed the Unwiseman. "I had my carpet-bag along and when the pleeceman wasn't looking I jumped into it and waited till they'd all gone. Of course they couldn't find me. I don't believe they've got any king over here at all."
"Then you'll never be a Duke?" said Whistlebinkie.
"No sirree!" ejaculated the Unwiseman. "Not while I know how to say no. If they offer it to me I'll buy a megaphone to say no through so's they'll be sure to hear it. Then there's that other wicked story about London Bridge falling down. I heard some youngsters down there by the River announcing the fact and I nearly ran my legs off trying to get there in time to see it fall and when I arrived it not only wasn't falling down but was just ram-jam full of omnibuses and cabs and trucks. Really I never knew anybody anywhere who could tell as many fibs in a minute as these people over here can."
"Well never mind, Mr. Me," said Mollie, soothingly. "Perhaps things have gone a little wrong with you, and I don't blame you for feeling badly about the King, but there are other things here that are very interesting. Come with Whistlebinkie and me to the British Museum and see the Mummies."
"Pooh!" retorted the Unwiseman. "I'd rather see a basket of figs."
"You never can tell," persisted Mollie. "They may turn out to be the most interesting things in all the world."
"I can tell," said the Unwiseman. "I've already seen 'em and they haven't as much conversation as a fried oyster. I went down there yesterday and spent two hours with 'em, and a more unapproachable lot you never saw in your life. I was just as polite to 'em as I knew how to be. Asked 'em how they liked the British climate. Told 'em long stories of my house at home. Invited a lot of 'em to come over and meet my burgular just as I did the King and not a one of 'em even so much as thanked me. They just stood off there in their glass cases and acted as if they never saw me, and if they did, hadn't the slightest desire to see me again. You don't catch me calling on them a second time."
"But there are other things in the Museum, aren't there?" asked Mollie.
The Unwiseman's gloom disappeared for a moment in a loud burst of laughter.
"Such a collection of odds and ends," he cried, with a sarcastic shake of his head. "I never saw so much broken crockery in all my life. It looks to me as if they'd bought up all the old broken china in the world. There are tea-pots without nozzles by the thousand. Old tin cans, all rusted up and with dents in 'em from everywhere. Cracked plates by the million, and no end of water-pitchers with the handles broken off, and chipped vases and goodness knows what all. And they call that a museum! Just you give me a half a dozen bricks and a crockery shop over in America and in five minutes I'll make that British Museum stuff look like a sixpence. When I saw it first, I was pretty mad to think I'd taken the trouble to go and look at it, and then as I went on and couldn't find a whole tea-cup in the entire outfit, and saw people with catalogues in their hands saying how wonderful everything was, I just had to sit down on the floor and roar with laughter."
"But the statuary, Mr. Me," said Mollie. "That was pretty fine I guess, wasn't it? I've heard it's a splendid collection."
"Worse than the crockery," laughed the Unwiseman. "There's hardly a statue in the whole place that isn't broken. Seems to me they're the most careless lot of people over here with their museums. Half the statues didn't have any heads on 'em. A good quarter of them had busted arms and legs, and on one of 'em there wasn't anything left but a pair of shoulder blades and half a wing sticking out at the back. It looked more like a quarry than a museum to me, and in a mighty bad state of repair even for a quarry. That was where they put me out," the old gentleman added.
"Put you out?" cried Mollie. "Oh Mr. Me – you don't mean to say they actually put you out of The British Museum?"
"I do indeed," said the Unwiseman with a broad grin on his face. "They just grabbed me by my collar and hustled me along the floor to the great door and dejected me just as if I didn't have any more feeling than their old statues. It's a wonder the way I landed I wasn't as badly busted up as they are."
"But what for? You were not misbehaving yourself, were you?" asked Mollie, very much disturbed over this latest news.
"Of course not," returned the Unwiseman. "Quite the contrary opposite. I was trying to help them. I came across the great big statue of some Greek chap – I've forgotten his name – something like Hippopotomes, or something of the sort – standing up on a high pedestal, with a sign,
"HANDS OFF
"hanging down underneath it. When I looked at it I saw at once that it not only had its hands off, but was minus a nose, two ears, one under-lip and a right leg, so I took out my pencil and wrote underneath the words Hands Off:
"LIKEWISE ONE NOZE
ONE PARE OF EARS
A LEG AND ONE LIPP
"It seemed to me the sign should ought to be made complete, but I guess they thought different, because I'd hardly finished the second P on lip when whizz bang, a lot of attendants came rushing up to me and the first thing I knew I was out on the street rubbing the back of my head and wondering what hit me."
"Poor old chap!" said Mollie sympathetically.
"Guess-you-wisht-you-was-mader-ubber-like-me!" whistled Whistlebinkie trying hard to repress his glee.
"What's that?" demanded the Unwiseman.
"I-guess-you-wished-you-were-made-of-rubber-like-me!" explained Whistlebinkie.
"Never in this world," retorted the Unwiseman scornfully. "If I'd been made of rubber like you I'd have bounced up and down two or three times instead of once, and I'm not so fond of hitting the sidewalk with myself as all that. But I didn't mind. I was glad to get out. I was so afraid all the time somebody'd come along and accuse me of breaking their old things that it was a real relief to find myself out of doors and nothing broken that didn't belong to me."
"They didn't break any of your poor old bones, did they?" asked Mollie, taking the Unwiseman's hand affectionately in her own.
"No – worse luck – they did worse than that," said the old gentleman growing very solemn again. "They broke that bottle of my native land that I always carry in my coat-tail pocket and loosened the cork in my fog bottle in the other, so that now I haven't more than a pinch of my native land with me to keep me from being homesick, and all of the fog I was saving up for my collection has escaped. But I don't care. I don't believe it was real fog, but just a mixture of soot and steam they're trying to pass off for the real thing. Bogus like everything else, and as for my native land, I've got enough to last me until I get home if I'm careful of it. The only thing I'm afraid of is that in scooping what I could of it up off the sidewalk I may have mixed a little British soil in with it. I'd hate to have that happen because just at present British soil isn't very popular with me."
"Maybe it's bogus too," snickered Whistlebinkie.
"So much the better," said the Unwiseman. "If it ain't real I can manage to stand it."
"Then you don't think much of the British Museum?" said Mollie.
"Well it ain't my style," said the Unwiseman, shaking his head vigorously. "But there was one thing that pleased me very much about it," the old man went on, his eye lighting with real pleasure and his voice trembling with patriotic pride, "and that's some of the things they didn't have in it. It was full of things the British have captured in Greece and Italy and Africa and pretty nearly everywhere else – mummies from Egypt, pieces of public libraries from Athens, second-story windows from Rome, and little dabs of architecture from all over the map except the United States. That made me laugh. They may have had Cleopatra's mummy there, but I didn't notice any dried up specimens of the Decalculation of Independence lying around in any of their old glass cases. They had a whole side wall out of some Roman capitol building perched up on a big wooden platform, but I didn't notice any domes from the Capitol at Washington or back piazzas from the White House on exhibition. There was a lot of busted old statuary from Greece all over the place, but nary a statue of Liberty from New York harbor, or figger of Andrew Jackson from Philadelphia, or bust of Ralph Waldo Longfellow from Boston Common, sitting up there among their trophies – only things hooked from the little fellers, and dug up from places like Pompey-two-eyes where people have been dead so long they really couldn't watch out for their property. It don't take a very glorious conqueror to run off with things belonging to people they can lick with one hand, and it pleased me so when I couldn't find even a finger-post, or a drug-store placard, or a three dollar shoe store sign from America in the whole collection that my chest stuck out like a pouter pigeon's and bursted my shirt-studs right in two. They'd have had a lump chipped off Independence Hall at Philadelphia, or a couple of chunks of Bunco Hill, or a sliver off the Washington Monument there all right if they could have got away with it, but they couldn't, and I tell you I wanted to climb right up top of the roof and sing Yankee Doodle and crow like a rooster the minute I noticed it, I felt so good."
"Three cheers for us," roared Whistlebinkie.
"That's the way to talk, Fizzledinkie," cried the old gentleman gleefully, and grasping Whistlebinkie by the hand he marched up and down Mollie's room singing the Star Spangled Banner – the Unwiseman in his excitement called it the Star Spangled Banana – and Columbia the Gem of the Ocean at the top of his lungs, and Mollie was soon so thrilled that she too joined in.
"Well," said Mollie, when the patriotic ardor of her two companions had died down a little. "What are you going to do, Mr. Me? We've got to stay here two days more. We don't start for Paris until Saturday."
"O don't bother about me," said the old man pleasantly. "I've got plenty to do. I've bought a book called 'French in Five Lessons' and I'm going to retire to my carpet-bag until you people are ready to start for France. I've figured it out that I can read that book through in two days if I don't waste too much of my time eating and sleeping and calling on kings and queens and trying to buy duke's clothes for $8.50, and snooping around British Museums and pricing specially appointed royal muffins, so that by the time you are ready to start for Paris I'll be in shape to go along. I don't think it's wise to go into a country where they speak another language without knowing just a little about it, and if 'French in Five Lessons' is what it ought to be you'll think I'm another Joan of Ark when I come out of that carpet-bag."
And so the queer old gentleman climbed into his carpet-bag, which Mollie placed for him over near the window where the light was better and settled down comfortably to read his new book, "French in Five Lessons."
"I'm glad he's going to stay in there," said Whistlebinkie, as he and Mollie started out for a walk in Hyde Park. "Because I wouldn't be a bit surprised after all he's told us if the pleese were looking for him."
"Neither should I," said Mollie. "If what he says about the British Museum is true and they really haven't any things from the United States in there, there's nothing they'd like better than to capture an American and put him up in a glass case along with those mummies."
All of which seemed to prove that for once the Unwiseman was a very wise old person.
VIII
THE UNWISEMAN'S FRENCH
The following two days passed very slowly for poor Mollie. It wasn't that she was not interested in the wonders of the historic Tower which she visited and where she saw all the crown jewels, a lot of dungeons and a splendid collection of armor and rare objects connected with English history; nor in the large number of other things to be seen in and about London from Westminster Abbey to Hampton Court and the Thames, but that she was lonesome without the Unwiseman. Both she and Whistlebinkie had approached the carpet-bag wherein the old gentleman lay hidden several times, and had begged him to come out and join them in their wanderings, but he not only wouldn't come out, but would not answer them. Possibly he did not hear when they called him, possibly he was too deeply taken up by his study of French to bother about anything else – whatever it was that caused it, he was as silent as though he were deaf and dumb.
"Less-sopen-thbag," suggested Whistlebinkie. "I-don'-bleeve-hes-sinthera-tall."
"Oh yes he's in there," said Mollie. "I've heard him squeak two or three times."
"Waddeesay?" said Whistlebinkie.
"What?" demanded Mollie, with a slight frown.
"What-did-he-say?" asked Whistlebinkie, more carefully.
"I couldn't quite make out," said Mollie. "Sounded like a little pig squeaking."
"I guess it was-sfrench," observed Whistlebinkie with a broad grin. "Maybe he was saying Wee-wee-wee. That's what little pigs say, and Frenchmen too – I've heard 'em."
"Very likely," said Mollie. "I don't know what wee-wee-wee means in little pig-talk, but over in Paris it means, 'O yes indeed, you're perfectly right about that.'"
"He'll never be able to learn French," laughed Whistlebinkie. "That is not so that he can speak it. Do you think he will?"
"That's what I'm anxious to see him for," said Mollie. "I'm just crazy to find out how he is getting along."
But all their efforts to get at the old gentleman were, as I have already said, unavailing. They knocked on the bag, and whispered and hinted and tried every way to draw him out but it was not until the little party was half way across the British Channel, on their way to France, that the Unwiseman spoke. Then he cried from the depths of the carpet bag:
"Hi there – you people outside, what's going on out there, an earthquake?"
"Whatid-i-tellu'" whistled Whistlebinkie. "That ain't French. Thass-singlish."
"Hallo-outside ahoy!" came the Unwiseman's voice again. "Slidyvoo la slide sur le top de cette carpet-bag ici and let me out!"
"That's French!" cried Mollie clapping her hands ecstatically together.
"Then I understand French too!" said Whistlebinkie proudly, "because I know what he wants. He wants to get out."
"Do you want to come out, Mr. Unwiseman?" said Mollie bending over the carpet-bag, and whispering through the lock.
"Wee-wee-wee," said the Unwiseman.
"More-pig-talk," laughed Whistlebinkie. "He's the little pig that went to market."
"No – it was the little pig that stayed at home that said wee, wee, wee all day long," said Mollie.
"Je desire to be lettyd out pretty quick if there's un grand big earthquake going on," cried the Unwiseman.
Mollie slid the nickeled latch on the top of the carpet-bag along and in a moment it flew open.
"Kesserkersayker what's going on out ici?" demanded the Unwiseman, as he popped out of the bag. "Je ne jammy knew such a lot of motiong. London Bridge ain't falling down again, is it?"
"No," said Mollie. "We're on the boat crossing the British Channel."
"Oh – that's it eh?" said the Unwiseman gazing about him anxiously, and looking rather pale, Mollie thought. "Well I thought it was queer. When I went to sleep last night everything was as still as Christmas, and when I waked up it was movier than a small boy in a candy store. So we're on the ocean again eh?"
"Not exactly," said Mollie. "We're on what they call the Channel."
"Seems to me the waves are just as big as they are on the ocean, and the water just as wet," said the Unwiseman, as the ship rose and fell with the tremendous swell of the sea, thereby adding much to his uneasiness.
"Yes – but it isn't so wide," explained Mollie. "It isn't more than thirty miles across."
"Then I don't see why they don't build a bridge over it," said the Unwiseman. "This business of a little bit of a piece of water putting on airs like an ocean ought to be put a stop to. This motion has really very much unsettled – my French. I feel so queer that I can't remember even what la means, and as for kesserkersay, I've forgotten if it's a horse hair sofa or a pair of brass andirons, and I had it all in my head not an hour ago. O – d-dud-dear!"
The Unwiseman plunged headlong into his carpet-bag again and pulled the top of it to with a snap.
"Oh my, O me!" he groaned from its depths. "O what a wicked channel to behave this way. Mollie – Moll-lie – O Mollie I say."
"Well?" said Mollie.
"Far from it – very unwell," groaned the Unwiseman. "Will you be good enough to ask the cook for a little salad oil?"
"Mercy," cried Mollie. "You don't want to mix a salad now do you?"
"Goodness, no!" moaned the Unwiseman. "I want you to pour it on those waves and sort of clam them down and then, if you don't mind, take the carpet-bag – "
"Yes," said Mollie.
"And chuck it overboard," groaned the Unwiseman. "I – I don't feel as if I cared ever to hear the dinner-bell again."
Poor Unwiseman! He was suffering the usual fate of those who cross the British Channel, which behaves itself at times as if it really did have an idea that it was a great big ocean and had an ocean's work to do. But fortunately this uneasy body of water is not very wide, and it was not long before the travellers landed safe and sound on the solid shores of France, none the worse for their uncomfortable trip.
"I guess you were wise not to throw me overboard after all," said the Unwiseman, as he came out of the carpet-bag at Calais. "I feel as fine as ever now and my lost French has returned."
"I'd like to hear some," said Mollie.
"Very well," replied the Unwiseman carelessly. "Go ahead and ask me a question and I'll answer it in French."
"Hm! Let me see," said Mollie wondering how to begin. "Have you had breakfast?"
"Wee Munsieur, j'ay le pain," replied the Unwiseman gravely.
"What does that mean?" asked Mollie, puzzled.
"He says he has a pain," said Whistlebinkie with a smile.
"Pooh! Bosh – nothing of the sort," retorted the Unwiseman. "Pain is French for bread. When I say 'j'ay le pain' I mean that I've got the bread."
"Are you the jay?" asked Whistlebinkie with mischief in his tone.
"Jay in French is I have – not a bird, stupid," retorted the Unwiseman indignantly.
"Funny way to talk," sniffed Whistlebinkie. "I should think pain would be a better word for pie, or something else that gives you one."
"That's because you don't know," said the Unwiseman. "In addition to the pain I've had oofs."
"Oooffs?" cried Whistlebinkie. "What on earth are oooffs?"
"I didn't say oooffs," retorted the Unwiseman, mocking Whistlebinkie's accent. "I said oofs. Oofs is French for eggs. Chickens lay oofs in France. I had two hard boiled oofs, and my pain had burr and sooker on it."
"Burr and sooker?" asked Mollie, wonderingly.
"I know what burr means – it's French for chestnuts," guessed Whistlebinkie. "He had chestnuts on his bread."
"Nothing of the sort," said the Unwiseman. "Burr is French for butter and has nothing to do with chestnuts. Over here in France a lady goes into a butter store and also says avvy-voo-doo burr, and the man behind the counter says wee, wee, wee, jay-doo-burr. Jay le bonn-burr. That means, yes indeed I've got some of the best butter in the market, ma'am."
"And then what does the lady say?" asked Whistlebinkie.
The Unwiseman's face flushed, and he looked very much embarrassed. It always embarrassed the poor old fellow to have to confess that there was something he didn't know. Unwisemen as a rule are very sensitive.
"That's as far as the conversation went in my French in Five Lessons," he replied. "And I think it was far enough. For my part I haven't the slightest desire to know what the lady said next. Conversation on the subject of butter doesn't interest me. She probably asked him how much it was a pound, however, if not knowing what she said is going to keep you awake nights."
"What's sooker?" asked Mollie.
"Sooker? O that's what the French people call sugar," explained the Unwiseman.
"Pooh!" ejaculated Whistlebinkie, scornfully. "What's the use of calling it sooker? Sooker isn't any easier to say than sugar."
"It's very much like it, isn't it?" said Mollie.
"Yes," said the Unwiseman. "They just drop the H out of sugar, and put in the K in place of the two Gees. I think myself when two words are so much alike as sooker and shoogger it's foolish to make two languages of 'em."
"Tell me something more to eat in French," said Whistlebinkie.
"Fromidge," said the Unwiseman bluntly.
"Fromidge? What's that!" asked Whistlebinkie.
"Cheese," said the Unwiseman. "If you want a cheese sandwich all you've got to do is to walk into a calf – calf is French for restaurant – call the waiter and say 'Un sandwich de fromidge, silver plate,' and you'll get it if you wait long enough. Silver plate means if you please. The French are very polite people."
"But how do you call the waiter?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"You just lean back in a chair and call garkon," said the Unwiseman. "That's what the book says, but I've heard Frenchmen in London call it gas on. I'm going to stick to the book, because it might turn out to be an English waiter and it would be very unpleasant to have him turn the gas on every time you called him."
"I should say so," cried Whistlebinkie. "You might get gas fixturated."
"You never would," said the Unwiseman.
"Anybody who isn't choked by your conversation could stand all the gas fixtures in the world."
"I don't care much for cheese, anyhow," said Whistlebinkie. "Is there any French for Beef?"
"O wee, wee, wee!" replied the Unwiseman. "Beef is buff in French. Donny-moi-de-buff – "
"Donny-moi-de-buff!" jeered Whistlebinkie, after a roar of laughter. "Sounds like baby-talk."
"Well it ain't," returned the Unwiseman severely. "Even Napoleon Bonaparte had to talk that way when he wanted beef and I guess the kind of talk that was good enough for a great Umpire like him is good enough for a rubber squeak like you."
"Then you like French do you, Mr. Me?" asked Mollie.
"Oh yes – well enough," said the Unwiseman. "Of course I like American better, but I don't see any sense in making fun of French the way Fizzledinkie does. It's got some queer things about it like calling a cat a chat, and a man a homm, and a lady a femm, and a dog a chi-enn, but in the main it's a pretty good language as far as I have got in it. There are one or two things in French that I haven't learned to say yet, like 'who left my umbrella out in the rain,' and 'has James currycombed the saddle-horse with the black spot on his eye and a bob-tail this morning,' and 'was that the plumber or the piano tuner I saw coming out of the house of your uncle's brother-in-law yesterday afternoon,' but now that I'm pretty familiar with it I'm glad I learned it. It is disappointing in some ways, I admit. I've been through French in Five Lessons four times now, and I haven't found any conversation in it about Kitchen-Stoves, which is going to be very difficult for me when I get to Paris and try to explain to people there how fine my kitchen-stove is. I'm fond of that old stove, and when these furriners begin to talk to me about the grandness of their country, I like to hit back with a few remarks about my stove, and I don't just see how I'm going to do it."
"What's sky-scraper in French?" demanded Whistlebinkie suddenly.
"They don't have sky-scrapers in French," retorted the old gentleman. "So your question, like most of the others you ask, is very very foolish."
"You think you can get along all right then, Mr. Me?" asked Mollie, gazing proudly at the old man and marvelling as to the amount of study he must have done in two days.
"I can if I can only get people talking the way I want 'em to," replied the Unwiseman. "I've really learned a lot of very polite conversation. For instance something like this:
"Do you wish to go anywhere?
No I do not wish to go anywhere.
Why don't you wish to go somewhere?
Because I've been everywhere.
You must have seen much.
No I have seen nothing.
Is not that rather strange?
No it is rather natural.
Why?
Because to go everywhere one must travel too rapidly to see anything."
"That you see," the Unwiseman went on, "goes very well at a five o'clock tea. The only trouble would be to get it started, but if I once got it going right, why I could rattle it off in French as easy as falling off a log."
"Smity interesting conversation," said Whistlebinkie really delighted.
"I'm glad you find it so," replied the Unwiseman.
"It's far more interesting in French than it is in English."
"Givus-smore," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"Give us what?" demanded the Unwiseman.
"Some-more," said Whistlebinkie.
"Well here is a very nice bit that I can do if somebody gives me the chance," said the Unwiseman. "It begins:
"Lend me your silver backed hand-glass.
Certainly. Who is that singing in the drawing room?
It is my daughter.
It is long since I heard anyone sing so well.
She has been taking lessons only two weeks.
Does she practice on the phonograph or on her Aunt's upright piano?
On neither. She accompanies herself upon the banjo.
I think she sings almost as well as Miss S.
Miss S. has studied for three weeks but Marietta has a better ear.
What is your wife's grandmother knitting?
A pair of ear-tabs for my nephew Jacques.
Ah – then your nephew Jacques too has an ear?
My nephew Jacques has two ears.
What a musical family!"
"Spul-lendid!" cried Whistlebinkie rapturously. "When do you think you can use that?"
