Kitabı oku: «The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI», sayfa 8
THE OCTOPUSSYCAT 4
BY KENYON COX
I love Octopussy, his arms are so long;
There's nothing in nature so sweet as his song.
'Tis true I'd not touch him—no, not for a farm!
If I keep at a distance he'll do me no harm.
THE BOOK-CANVASSER
ANONYMOUS
He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,—
"Mr. –, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.
"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. "That's—lemme see—yes, that's Columbus. Perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered—no; was it Columbus that dis—oh, yes, Columbus he discovered America,—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that's the way they dressed in them days.
"Look at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? That's William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down he set one on top of his son's head and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold, he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? face shaved clean; he didn't wear a moustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch, so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs, too! Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?
"There's something nice. That, I think is—is—that—a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington; you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country. George—Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.
"Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a—oh, yes, flying a kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd 'a' ben hit, it'd just made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin'. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.
"Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe; anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is, there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick; evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.
"And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam,—General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it?
"Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em till they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.
"And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?"
HER VALENTINE
BY RICHARD HOVEY
What, send her a valentine? Never!
I see you don't know who "she" is.
I should ruin my chances forever;
My hopes would collapse with a fizz.
I can't see why she scents such disaster
When I take heart to venture a word;
I've no dream of becoming her master,
I've no notion of being her lord.
All I want is to just be her lover!
She's the most up-to-date of her sex,
And there's such a multitude of her,
No wonder they call her complex.
She's a bachelor, even when married,
She's a vagabond, even when housed;
And if ever her citadel's carried
Her suspicions must not be aroused.
She's erratic, impulsive and human,
And she blunders,—as goddesses can;
But if she's what they call the New Woman,
Then I'd like to be the New Man.
I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,
And typewrites and hoes her own row,
And it's quite beyond reach of conjectures
How much further she's going to go.
When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer
Of a seat and hangs on to a strap;
I admire her so much, I could offer
To let her ride up on my lap.
Let her undo the stays of the ages,
That have cramped and confined her so long!
Let her burst through the frail candy cages
That fooled her to think they were strong!
She may enter life's wide vagabondage,
She may do without flutter or frill,
She may take off the chains of her bondage,—
And anything else that she will.
She may take me off, for example,
And she probably does when I'm gone.
I'm aware the occasion is ample;
That's why I so often take on.
I'm so glad she can win her own dollars
And know all the freedom it brings.
I love her in shirt-waists and collars,
I love her in dress-reform things.
I love her in bicycle skirtlings—
Especially when there's a breeze—
I love her in crinklings and quirklings
And anything else that you please.
I dote on her even in bloomers—
If Parisian enough in their style—
In fact, she may choose her costumers,
Wherever her fancy beguile.
She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,
She may argue, hold office or vote,
She may engineer turret or trestle,
And build a few ships that will float.
She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)
Make money, and naturally spend,
If I let her have her way, I'm certain
She'll let me have mine in the end!
THE WELSH RABBITTERN 5
BY KENYON COX
This is a very fearsome bird
Who sits upon men's chests at night.
With horrid stare his eyeballs glare:
He flies away at morning's light.
COMIC MISERIES
BY JOHN G. SAXE
I
My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
II
You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,—
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes:
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain,—
Alas for one who drops a jest
And takes it up again!
III
You're taking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse:
You think you've got him,—when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!
IV
You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,
The old, authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!
V
By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While everybody marvels why
Your mirth is under ban,
They think your very grief "a joke,"
You're such a funny man!
VI
You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine);
You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you're thinking of,
And why you don't begin!
VII
You're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose,—
A solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:—
You quarrel with your wife!
VIII
My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT
ANONYMOUS
A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book,—the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city.
Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, "Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."
"Ah, and who was she?"
"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman,—a book-agent."
"A what?"
"A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,—the 'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing toward her husband.
"I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.
"Why, husband?" asked his wife.
"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book,—two copies of the 'Early Christian Martyrs,' and—"
"But, husband, we can—"
"No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I—"
"Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the train.
"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and—"
Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.
"Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!"
"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.
Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!"
"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train. "Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."
"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."
"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"
"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.
Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.
"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,—"just got it, and that's all."
"Got what?" yelled Watson.
"Why, I got the book,—'Early Christian Martyrs,'—and paid—"
"By—the—great—guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to his brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.
THE COQUETTE
A Portrait
BY JOHN G. SAXE
"You're clever at drawing, I own,"
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
"But say, can you paint a Coquette?"
"She's painted already," quoth I;
"Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,
"Now none of your joking,—but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette."
"Well, cousin," at once I began
In the ear of the eager Lisette,
"I'll paint you as well as I can
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
"She wears a most beautiful face,"
("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette),
"And isn't deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.
"And then she is daintily made"
(A smile from the dainty Lisette),
"By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.
"She's the winningest ways with the beaux,"
("Go on!"—said the winning Lisette),
"But there isn't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
"She knows how to weep and to sigh,"
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
"But her weeping is all in my eye,—
Not that of the cunning Coquette!
"In short, she's a creature of art,"
("Oh hush!" said the frowning Lisette),
"With merely the ghost of a heart,—
Enough for a thorough Coquette.
"And yet I could easily prove"
("Now don't!" said the angry Lisette),
"The lady is always in love,—
In love with herself,—the Coquette!
"There,—do not be angry!—you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago
To paint you—a thorough Coquette!"
A SPRING FEELING
BY BLISS CARMAN
I think it must be spring. I feel
All broken up and thawed.
I'm sick of everybody's "wheel";
I'm sick of being jawed.
I am too winter-killed to live,
Cold-sour through and through.
O Heavenly Barber, come and give
My soul a dry shampoo!
I'm sick of all these nincompoops,
Who weep through yards of verse,
And all these sonneteering dupes
Who whine and froth and curse.
I'm sick of seeing my own name
Tagged to some paltry line,
While this old corpus without shame
Sits down to meat and wine.
I'm sick of all these Yellow Books,
And all these Bodley Heads;
I'm sick of all these freaks and spooks
And frights in double leads.
When good Napoleon's publisher
Was dangled from a limb,
He should have had an editor
On either side of him.
I'm sick of all this taking on
Under a foreign name;
For when you call it decadent,
It's rotten just the same.
I'm sick of all this puling trash
And namby-pamby rot,—
A Pegasus you have to thrash
To make him even trot!
An Age-end Art! I would not give,
For all their plotless plays,
One round Flagstaffian adjective
Or one Miltonic phrase.
I'm sick of all this poppycock
In bilious green and blue;
I'm tired to death of taking stock
Of everything that's "New."
New Art, New Movements, and New Schools,
All maimed and blind and halt!
And all the fads of the New Fools
Who can not earn their salt.
I'm sick of the New Woman, too.
Good Lord, she's worst of all.
Her rights, her sphere, her point of view,
And all that folderol!
She makes me wish I were the snake
Inside of Eden's wall,
To give the tree another shake,
And see another fall.
I'm very much of Byron's mind;
I like sufficiency;
But just the common garden kind
Is good enough for me.
I want to find a warm beech wood,
And lie down, and keep still;
And swear a little; and feel good;
Then loaf on up the hill,
And let the Spring house-clean my brain,
Where all this stuff is crammed;
And let my heart grow sweet again;
And let the Age be damned.
WASTED OPPORTUNITIES 6
BY ROY FARRELL GREENE
The lips I might have tasted, rosy ripe as any cherry,
How they pair off by the dozens when my memory goes back
Across the current of the years aboard of Fancy's ferry,
Which shuns the shores of What-We-Have and touches What-We-Lack.
The girl I took t' singin'-school one night, who vowed she'd never
Before walked with a feller 'thout her mother bein' by,
I reckon that her temptin' mouth will haunt my dreams forever,
The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try!
I recollect another girl, as chipper as a robin,
Who rode beside me in a sleigh one night through snow an' sleet,
An' both my hands I kept in use a guidin' good ol' Dobbin—
One didn't need them any mor'n a chicken needs four feet.
Too scared was I to hold her in, or warm her cheeks with kisses,—
I know, now, she expected it, for once I heard her sigh—
To-day I'd like t' kick myself for these neglected blisses,
The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.
I never kissed Rebecca, she was sober as a Quaker,
I never kissed Alvira, though I took her home one night,
That city cousin of the Smiths, a Miss Myrtilla Baker,
Though scores of opportunities slipped by me, left an' right.
It makes me hate myself to-day when I on Fancy's ferry
Have crossed the current of the years to olden days gone by,
T' think of all the lips I've missed, ripe-red as topmost cherry,
The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.
THE WEDDIN'
BY JENNIE BETTS HARTSWICK
Well, it's over, it's all over—bein' the last to leave I know that—and I declare, I'm that full of all the things we had to eat that John and me won't want any supper for a good hour yet, so I just ran in to tell you about it while it's on top of my mind.
It's an everlastin' shame you had to miss it! One thing, though, you'll get a trayful of the good things sent in to you, I shouldn't wonder. I know there's loads left, for I happened to slip out to the kitchen for a drink of water—I was that dry after all those salty nuts, and I didn't want to trouble 'em—and I saw just heaps of things standin' round.
Most likely you'll get a good, large plate of cake, not just a pinchin' little mite of a piece in a box. The boxes is real pretty, though, and they did look real palatial all stacked up on a table by the front door with a strange colored man, in white gloves like a pall-bearer, to hand 'em to you.
How did I get two of 'em? Why, it just happened that way. You see, when I was leavin' I missed my sun-shade and I laid my box down on the hatrack-stand while I went upstairs to look for it. I went through all the rooms, and just when I'd about given it up, why, there it was, right in my hand all the time! Wasn't it foolish? And when I came downstairs I found I'd clean forgot where I'd laid that box of cake. I hunted everywhere, and then I just had to tell the man how 'twas, so he handed me another one, and I was just walkin' out the front door when, would you believe it! if there wasn't the other one, just as innocent, on the hatrack-stand where I had laid it. So now I have three of 'em, countin' John's.
I just can't seem to realize that Eleanor Jamison is married at last, can you? She took her time if ever anybody did. They do say she was real taken with that young college professor with the full beard and spectacles that visited there last summer, and then to think that, after all, she went and married a man with a smooth face. He wears glasses, though; that's one point in common.
Eleanor's gone off a good deal lately, don't you think so? You hadn't noticed it? But then you never was any great hand at noticin', I've noticed you weren't. Why, the other day when I was there offerin' to help 'em get ready for the weddin' I noticed that she looked real worn, and there was two or three little fine lines in her eye-corners—not real wrinkles, of course—but we all know that lines is a forerunner. Her hair's beginnin' to turn, too; I noticed that comin' out of church last Sunday. I dare say her knowing this made her less particular than she'd once have been; and after all, marryin' any husband is a good deal like buyin' a new black silk dress pattern—an awful risk.
You may look at it on both sides and hold it up to the light, and pull it to see if it'll fray and try if it'll spot, but you can't be sure what it'll do till after you've worn it a spell.
There's one advantage to the dress pattern, though—you can make 'em take it back if you mistrust it won't wear—if you haven't cut into it, that is—but when you've got a husband, why, you've got him, to have and to hold, for better and worse and good and all.
Yes, I'm comin' to the weddin'—I declare, when I think how careless Eleanor is about little things I can't help mistrusting what kind of a housekeeper she'll turn out. Why, when John's and my invitation came it was only printed to the church—there wasn't any reception card among it.
Now I've supplied Eleanor's folks with butter and eggs and spring chickens for thirty years, and I'd just have gone anyway, for I knew it was a mistake, but John held out that 'twasn't—that they didn't mean to have us to the house part; so to settle it I went right over and told 'em. I told Eleanor she mustn't feel put out about it—we was all mortal—and if it hadn't been for satisfyin' John I'd never have let her know how careless she'd been—of course I'd made allowance, a weddin' is upsettin' to the intellect—and so 'twas all right.
I had a real good view of the ceremony; but 'twasn't their fault that I had; it just happened that way.
When John and me got there I asked the young man at the door—he was a yusher and a stranger to me—to give us a front seat, but he said that all the front places was reserved for the relations of the bride and groom, and then I noticed that they'd tied off the middle aisle about seven pews back with white satin ribbons and a big bunch of pink roses. It seemed real impolite to invite folks to a weddin' and then take the best seats themselves.
Well, just then I happened to feel my shoelacin' gettin' loose and I stepped to one side to fix it; and when I got up from stoopin' and my gloves on and buttoned—I had to take 'em off to tie my shoe—and straightened John's cravat for him, why, there was the families on both sides just goin' in.
Of course we had to follow right along behind 'em, and when we came up to the ribbons—would you believe it?—the big bow just untied itself—or seemed to—I heard afterward it was done by somebody pullin' a invisible wire—and we all walked through and took seats. I made John go into the pew ahead of me so's I could get out without disturbin' anybody if I should have a headache or feel faint.
When John found we was settin' with the family—he was right close up against Eleanor's mother—he was for gettin' up and movin' back. But I just whispered to him, "John Appleby, do sit still! I hear the bridal party comin'!"
Of course I didn't just hear 'em, but I was sure they'd be along in a minute, and I knew it wouldn't do to move our seats anyway, as if we weren't satisfied with 'em.
The church was decorated beautiful. Eleanor's folks must have cleaned out their green-house to put into it, besides tons of greens from the city.
Pretty near the whole of Wrenville was there, and I must say the church was a credit to the Wrenville dressmakers.
I could pick out all their different fits without any trouble.
There was Arabella Satterlee's—she shapes her backs like the top of a coffin, or sometimes they remind me more of a kite; and Sallie Ann Hodd's—she makes 'em square; and old Mrs. Tucker's—you can always tell hers by the way the armholes draw; she makes the minister's wife's. But they'd every one of 'em done their level best and I was proud of 'em.
Well, when the organ—it had been playin' low and soft all the time—changed off into the weddin' march and the bridesmaids, eight of 'em, marched up the aisle behind the eight yushers, I tell you, Miss Halliday, it was a sight!
They was all in pink gauzy stuff—I happened to feel one of 'em as she went by but I couldn't tell what 'twas made of; it seemed dreadful flimsy—and big flat hats all made of roses on their heads, and carryin' bunches pf long-stemmed roses so big that they had to hold 'em in their arms like young babes.
Eleanor came behind 'em all, walkin' with her father. He always was a small-built man, and with her long trail and her veil spreadin' out so, why, I declare, you couldn't hardly see him.
I whispered to John that they looked more as if Eleanor was goin' to give her pa away than him her.
Eleanor's dress was elegant, only awful plain. It was made in New York at Greenleaf's. I know, because when I was upstairs lookin' for my sunshade—I told you about that, didn't I?—I happened to get into Eleanor's room by mistake, and there was the box it came in right on the bed before my eyes.
Well, when they was all past, I kept lookin' round me for the groom and wonderin' how I had come to miss him, when all at once John nudged me, and there he was right in front of me and the minister beginnin' to marry 'em, and where he had sprung from I can't tell you this livin' minute!
Came in from the vestry, did he? Well, now, I never would have thought of that!
Well, when they was most married the most ridiculous thing happened.
You see, Eleanor's father in steppin' back after givin' her away had put his foot right down on her trail and never noticed, and when it came time for the prayer Eleanor pulled and pulled—they was to kneel down on two big white satin cushions in front of 'em—but her pa never budged—just stood there with his eyes shut and his head bowed as devout as anything—and before Eleanor could stop him, her husband—he was most her husband, anyway—had kneeled right down on to the cushion, with his eyes shut, too, I suppose, and the minister had to pray over 'em that way. I could see Eleanor's shoulders shakin' under her veil, and of course it was ridiculous if it hadn't been so solemn.
And then they all marched down the aisle, with the bride and groom leadin' the procession. Eleanor's veil was put back, and I noticed that she was half-laughin' yet, and her cheeks were real pink, and her eyes sort of bright and moist—she looked real handsome. Good gracious, Miss Halliday, don't ever tell me that's six o'clock! And I haven't told a thing about the presents, and who was there, and Eleanor's clothes, and what they had to eat—why, they didn't even use their own china-ware! They had a colored caterer from New York, and he brought everything—all the dishes and table-cloths and spoons and forks, besides the refreshments. I know, because just after he came I happened to carry over my eleven best forks—John broke the dozenth tryin' to pry the cork out of a bottle of raspberry vinegar the year we was married—I never take a fork to pry with—and offered to loan 'em for the weddin', but they didn't need 'em, so I just stayed a minute or two in the butler's pantry and then went home—but I saw the caterer unpackin'.
There! I knew I'd stay too long! There's John comin' in the gate after me. I must go this blessed minute.
