"SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE.
Next comes Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland with her Western sketches. Many
will remember her laughable description of "Borrowing Out West," with
its two appropriate mottoes: "Lend me your ears," from Shakespeare, and
from Bacon: "Grant graciously what you cannot refuse safely."
"'Mother wants your sifter,' said Miss Ianthe Howard, a young lady of
six years' standing, attired in a tattered calico thickened with dirt;
her unkempt locks straggling from under that hideous substitute for a
bonnet so universal in the Western country--a dirty cotton
handkerchief--which is used _ad nauseam_ for all sorts of purposes.
"'Mother wants your sifter, and she says she guesses you can let her
have some sugar and tea, 'cause you've got plenty.' This excellent
reason, ''cause you've got plenty,' is conclusive as to sharing with
neighbors.
"Sieves, smoothing-irons, and churns run about as if they had legs; one
brass kettle is enough for a whole neighborhood, and I could point to a
cradle which has rocked half the babies in Montacute.
"For my own part, I have lent my broom, my thread, my tape, my spoons,
my cat, my thimble, my scissors, my shawl, my shoes, and have been asked
for my combs and brushes, and my husband for his shaving apparatus and
pantaloons."
Mrs. Whither, whose "Widow Bedott" is a familiar name, resembles Mrs.
Kirkland in her comic portraitures, which were especially good of their
kind, and never betrayed any malice. The "Bedott Papers" first appeared
in 1846, and became popular at once. They are good examples of what they
simply profess to be: an amusing series of comicalities.
I shall not quote from them, as every one who enjoys that style of humor
knows them by heart. It would be as useless as copying "Now I lay me
down to sleep," or "Mary had a little lamb," for a child's collection of
verses!
* * * * *
There are many authors whom I cannot represent worthily in these brief
limits. When, encouraged by the unprecedented popularity of this
venture, I prepare an encyclopaedia of the "Wit and Humor of American
Women," I can do justice to such writers as "Gail Hamilton" and Miss
Alcott, whose "Transcendental Wild Oats" cannot be cut. Rose Terry Cooke
thinks her "Knoware" the only funny thing she has ever done. She is
greatly mistaken, as I can soon prove. "Knoware" ought to be printed by
itself to delight thousands, as her "Deacon's Week" has already done. To
search for a few good things in the works of my witty friends is
searching not for the time-honored needle in a hay-mow, but for two or
three needles of just the right size out of a whole paper of needles.
"The Insanity of Cain," by Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, an inimitable satire
on the feebleness of our jury system and the absurd pretence of
"temporary insanity," must wait for that encyclopaedia. And her "Miss
Molony on the Chinese Question" is known and admired by every one,
including the Prince of Wales, who was fairly convulsed by its fun, when
brought out by our favorite elocutionist, Miss Sarah Cowell, who had the
honor of reading before royalty.
I regretfully omit the "Peterkin Letters," by Lucretia P. Hale, and time
famous "William Henry Letters," by Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz. The very best
bit from Miss Sallie McLean would be how "Grandma Spicer gets Grandpa
Ready for Sunday-school," from the "Cape Cod Folks;" but why not save
space for what is not in everybody's mouth and memory? This is equally
true of Mrs. Cleaveland's "No Sects in Heaven," which, like Arabella
Wilson's "Sextant," goes the rounds of all the papers every other year
as a fresh delight.
Marietta Holley, too, must be allowed only a brief quotation. "Samantha"
is a family friend from Mexico to Alaska. Mrs. Metta Victoria Victor,
who died recently, has written an immense amount of humorous sketches.
Her "Miss Slimmens," the boarding-house keeper, is a marked character,
and will be remembered by many.
I will select a few "samples," unsatisfactory because there is so much
more just as good, and then give room for others less familiar.
MISS LUCINDA'S PIG.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
"You don't know of any poor person who'd like to have a pig, do you?"
said Miss Lucinda, wistfully.
"Well, the poorer they was, the quicker they'd eat him up, I guess--ef
they could eat such a razor-back."
"Oh, I don't like to think of his being eaten! I wish he could be got
rid of some other way. Don't you think he might be killed in his sleep,
Israel?"
"I think it's likely it would wake him up," said he, demurely. "Killin'
's killin', and a critter can't sleep over it 's though 'twas the
stomachache. I guess he'd kick some, ef he _was_ asleep--and screech
some, too!"
"Dear me!" said Miss Lucinda, horrified at the idea. "I wish he could be
sent out to run in the woods. Are there any good woods near here,
Israel?"
"I don't know but what he'd as lieves be slartered to once as to starve
an' be hunted down out in the lots. Besides, there ain't nobody as I
knows of would like a hog to be a-rootin' round among their turnips and
young wheat."
"Well, what I shall do with him I don't know!" despairingly exclaimed
Miss Lucinda. "He was such a dear little thing when you bought him,
Israel! Do you remember how pink his pretty little nose was--just like a
rosebud--and how bright his eyes were, and his cunning legs? And now
he's grown so big and fierce! But I can't help liking him, either."
"He's a cute critter, that's sartain; but he does too much rootin' to
have a pink nose now, I expect; there's consider'ble on 't, so I guess
it looks as well to have it gray. But I don't know no more'n you do what
to do abaout it."
"If I could only get rid of him without knowing what became of him!"
exclaimed Miss Lucinda, squeezing her forefinger with great earnestness,
and looking both puzzled and pained.
"If Mees Lucinda would pairmit?" said a voice behind her.
She turned round to see Monsieur Leclerc on his crutches, just in the
parlor-door.
"I shall, mees, myself dispose of piggie, if it please. I can. I shall
have no sound; he shall to go away like a silent snow, to trouble you no
more, never!"
"Oh, sir, if you could! But I don't see how!"
"If mees was to see, it would not be to save her pain. I shall have him
to go by _magique_ to fiery land."
Fairy-land, probably. But Miss Lucinda did not perceive the _equivoque_.
"Nor yet shall I trouble Meester Israyel. I shall have the aid of myself
and one good friend that I have; and some night, when you rise of the
morning, he shall not be there."
Miss Lucinda breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"I am greatly obliged--I mean, I shall be," said she.
"Well, I'm glad enough to wash my hands on 't," said Israel. "I shall
hanker arter the critter some, but he's a-gettin' too big to be handy;
'n it's one comfort about critters, you ken git rid on 'em somehaow when
they're more plague than profit. But folks has got to be let alone,
excep' the Lord takes 'em; an' He generally don't see fit."--_From
Somebody's Neighbors._
A GIFT HORSE.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
"Well, he no need to ha' done it, Sary. I've told him more'n four times
he hadn't ought to pull a gun tow'rds him by the muzzle on't. Now he's
up an' did it once for all."
"He won't never have no chance to do it again, Scotty, if you don't
hurry up after the doctor," said Sary, wiping her eyes on her dirty
calico apron, thereby adding an effective shadow under their redness.
"Well, I'm a-goin', ain't I? But ye know yerself 'twon't do to go so fur
on eend, 'thout ye're vittled consider'ble well."
So saying, he fell to at the meal she had interrupted, hot potatoes,
cold pork, dried venison, and blueberry pie vanishing down his throat
with an alacrity and dispatch that augured well for the thorough
"vittling" he intended, while Sary went about folding chunks of boiled
ham, thick slices of brown bread, solid rounds of "sody biskit," and
slab-sided turnovers in a newspaper, filling a flat bottle with whiskey,
and now and then casting a look at the low bed where young Harry
McAlister lay, very much whiter than the sheets about him, and quite as
unconscious of surroundings, the blood oozing slowly through such
bandages as Scott Peck's rude surgery had twisted about a gunshot-wound
in his thigh, and brought to close tension by a stick thrust through the
folds, turned as tight as could be borne, and strapped into place by a
bit of coarse twine.
It was a long journey paddling up the Racquette River, across creek and
carry, with the boat on his back, to the lakes, and then from Martin's
to "Harri'tstown," where he knew a surgeon of repute from a great city
was spending his vacation. It was touch-and-go with Harry before Scott
and Dr. Drake got back. Sary had dosed him with venison-broth, hot and
greasy, weak whiskey and water, and a little milk (only a little), for
their cow was old and pastured chiefly on leaves and twigs, and she only
came back to the shanty when she liked or needed to come, so their milk
supply was uncertain, and Sary dared not leave her patient long enough
to row to the end of Tupper's Lake, where the nearest cow was kept. But
youth has a power of recovery that defies circumstance, and Dr. Drake
was very skilful. Long weeks went by, and the green woods of July had
brightened and faded into October's dim splendor before Harry McAlister
could be carried up the river and over to Bartlett's, where his mother
had been called to meet him. She was a widow, and he her only child;
and, though she was rather silly and altogether unpractical, she had a
tender, generous heart, and was ready to do anything possible for Scott
and Sarah Peck to show her gratitude for their kindness to her boy. She
did not consult Harry at all. He had lost much blood from his accident
and recovered strength slowly. She kept everything like thought or
trouble out of his way as far as she could, and when the family
physician found her heart was set on taking him to Florida for the
winter, because he looked pale and her grandmother's aunt had died of
consumption, Dr. Peet, like a wise man, rubbed his hands together,
bowed, and assured her it would be the very thing. But something must be
done for the Pecks before she went away. It occurred to her how
difficult it must be for them to row everywhere in a small boat. A horse
would be much better. Even if the roads were not good they could ride,
Sarah behind Scott. And so useful in farming, too. Her mind was made up
at once. She dispatched a check for three hundred dollars to Peter Haas,
her old coachman, who had bought a farm in Vermont with his savings, and
retired, with the cook for his wife, into the private life of a farmer.
Mrs. McAlister had much faith in Peter's knowledge of horses and his
honesty. She wrote him to buy a strong, steady animal, and convey it to
Scott Peck, either sending him word to come up to Bartlett's after it,
or taking it down the river; but, at any rate, to make sure he had it.
If the check would not pay all expenses, he was to draw on her for more.
Peter took the opportunity to get rid of a horse he had no use for in
winter; a beast restive as a racer when not in daily use, but strong
enough for any work, and steady enough if he had work. Two hundred and
fifty dollars was the price now set on his head, though Peter had bought
him for seventy-five, and thought him dear at that. The remaining fifty
was ample for expenses; but Peter was a prudent German and liked a
margin. There was no difficulty in getting the horse as far as Martin's,
and by dint of patient insistence Peter contrived to have him conveyed
to Bartlett's; but here he rested and sent a messenger down to Scott
Peck, while he himself returned to Bridget at the farm, slowly cursing
the country and the people as he went his way, for his delays and
troubles had been numerous.
"Gosh!" said Scott Peck, when he stepped up to the log-house that served
for the guides, unknowing what awaited him, for the messenger had not
found him at home, but left word he was to come to Bartlett's for
something, and the first thing he saw was this gray horse.
"What fool fetched his hoss up here?"
The guides gathered about the door of their hut, burst into a loud
cackle of laughter; even the beautiful hounds in their rough kennel
leaped up and bayed.
"W-a-a-l;" drawled lazy Joe Tucker, "the feller 't owns him ain't
nobody's fool. Be ye, Scotty?"
"Wha-t!" ejaculated Scott.
"It's your'n, man, sure as shootin'!" laughed Hearty Jack, Joe Tucker's
brother.
"Mine? Jehoshaphat! Blaze that air track, will ye? I'm lost, sure."
"Well, Bartlett's gone out Keeseville way, so't kinder was lef' to me to
tell ye. 'Member that ar chap that shot hisself in the leg down to your
shanty this summer?"
"Well, I expect I do, seein' I ain't more'n a hundred year old,"
sarcastically answered Scott.
"He's cleared out South-aways some'eres, and his ma consaited she was
dredful obleeged to ye; 'n I'm blessed if she didn't send an old Dutch
feller up here fur to fetch ye that hoss fur a present. He couldn't
noways wait to see ye pus'nally, he sed, fur he mistrusted the' was
snows here sometimes 'bout this season. Ho! ho! ho!"
"Good land!" said Scott, sitting down on a log, and putting his hands in
his pockets, the image of perplexity, while the men about him roared
with fresh laughter. "What be I a-goin' to do with the critter?" he
asked of the crowd.
"Blessed if I know," answered Hearty Jack.
"Can't ye get him out to 'Sable Falls or Keeseville 'n sell him fur what
he'll fetch?" suggested Joe Tucker.
"I can't go now, noways. Sary's wood-pile's nigh gin out, 'n there was a
mighty big sundog yesterday; 'nd moreover I smell snow. It'll be suthin'
to git hum as 'tis. Mabbe Bartlett'll keep him a spell."
"No, he won't; you kin bet your head. His fodder's a-runnin' short for
the hornid critters. He's bought some up to Martin's, that's a-comin'
down dyrect; but 'tain't enough. He's put to't for more. Shouldn't
wonder ef he had to draw from North Elby when sleddin' sets in."
"Well, I dono's there's but one thing for to do; fetch him hum somehow
or 'nother; 'nd there's my boat over to the carry!"
"You'd better tie the critter on behind an' let him wade down the
Racket!"
Another shout of laughter greeted this proposal.
"I s'all take ze boat for you!" quietly said a little brown
Canadian--Jean Poiton. "I am go to Tupper to-morrow. I have one hunt to
make. I can take her."
"Well said, Gene. I'll owe you a turn. But, fur all, how be I goin' to
get that animile 'long the trail?"
"I dono!" answered Joe Tucker. "I expect, if it's got to be did, you'll
fetch it somehow. But I'm mighty glad 'tain't my job!"
Scott Peck thought Joe had good reason for joy in that direction before
he had gone a mile on his homeward way! The trail was only a trail,
rough, devious, crossed with roots of trees, brushed with boughs of fir
and pine, and the horse was restive and unruly. By nightfall he had gone
only a few miles, and when he had tied the beast to a tree and covered
him with a blanket brought from Bartlett's for the purpose, and strapped
on his own back all the way, the light of the camp-fire startled the
horse so that Scott was forced to blind him with a comforter before he
would stand still. Then in the middle of the night, a great owl hooting
from the tree-top just above him was a fresh scare, and but that the
strap and rope both were new and strong he would have escaped. Scott
listened to his rearing, trampling, snorts, and wild neigh with the
composure of a sleepy man; but when he awoke at daylight, and found
four inches of snow had fallen during the night, he swore.
This was too much. Even to his practised woodcraft it seemed impossible
to get the horse safe to his clearing without harm. It was only by dint
of the utmost care and patience, the greatest watchfulness of the way,
that he got along at all. Every rod or two he stumbled, and all but fell
himself. Here and there a loaded hemlock bough, weighed out of its
uprightness by the wet snow, snapped in his face and blinded him with
its damp burden; and he knew long before nightfall that another night in
the woods was inevitable. He could feed the horse on young twigs of
beech and birch; fresh moss, and new-peeled bark (fodder the animal
would have resented with scorn under any other conditions); but hunger
has no law concerning food. Scott himself was famished; but his pipe and
tobacco were a refuge whose value he knew before, and his charge was
tired enough to be quiet this second night; so the man had an
undisturbed sleep by his comfortable fire. It was full noon of the next
day when he reached his cabin. Jean Poiton had tied his boat to its
stake, and gone on without stopping to speak to Sarah; so her surprise
was wonderful when she saw Scott emerge from the forest, leading a gray
creature, with drooping head and shambling gait, tired and dispirited.
"Heaven's to Betsey, Scott Peck! What hev you got theer?"
"The devil!" growled Scott.
Sary screamed.
"Do hold your jaw, gal, an' git me su'thin' hot to eat 'n drink. I'm
savager'n an Injin. Come, git along." And, tying his horse to a stump,
the hungry man followed Sarah into the house and helped himself out of
a keg in the corner to a long, reviving draught.
"Du tell!" said Sarah, when the pork began to frizzle in the pan. "What
upon airth did you buy a hoss for?" (She had discovered it was a horse.)
"Buy it! I guess not. I ain't no such blamed fool as that comes to. That
feller you nussed up here a spell back, he up an' sent it roun' to
Bartlett's, for a present to me."
"Well! Did he think you was a-goin' to set up canawl long o' Racket?"
"I expect he calc'lated I'd go racin'," dryly answered Scott.
"But what be ye a-goin' to feed him with?" said Sary, laying venison
steaks into the pan.
"Lord knows! I don't. Shut up, Sary! I'm tuckered out with the beast.
I'd ruther still-hunt three weeks on eend than fetch him in from
Sar'nac, now I tell ye. Ain't them did enough? I could eat a raw bear."
Sary laughed and asked no more questions till the ravenous man had
satisfied himself with the savory food; but, if she had asked them,
Scott would have had no answer, for his mind was perplexed to the last
degree. He fed the beast for a while on potatoes; but that was taking
the bread out of his own mouth, though he supplemented it with now and
then a boat-load of coarse, frost-killed grass, but the horse grew more
and more gaunt and restive. His eyes glared with hunger and fury. He
kicked out one side of the cowshed and snapped at Scott whenever he came
near him. Want of use and food had restored him to the original savagery
of his race. Hitherto Scott had never acknowledged Mrs McAlister's gift;
but Sary, who had a vague idea of good manners, caught from the picture
papers and occasional dime novels the tribe of Adirondack travellers
strew even in such a wilderness, kept pecking at him.
"Ta'n't no more'n civil to say thank ye, to the least," she said, till
Scott's temper gave way.
"Stop a-pesterin' of me! I've hed too much. I ain't a speck thankful!
I'm mightily t'other thing, whatever 'tis. Write to her yourself, if
you're a mind tu. You can make a better fist at it, anyways. Comes as
nateral to women to lie as sap to run. I'll be etarnally blessed ef I
touch paper for to do it." And he flung out of the door with a bang.
Of course Sary wrote the letter, which one balmy day electrified Harry
and his mother as they sat basking in Southern sunshine:
"MIS MACALLISTUR: This is fur to say wee is reel
obliged to ye fur the HOSS."
"Good gracious, mother! Did you send them a horse?" ejaculated Harry.
"Why, my dear, I wanted to show my sense of their kindness, and I could
not offer these people money. I thought a horse would be so useful!"
"Useful! in the Adirondack woods!" And Harry burst into a fit of
laughter that scarcely permitted his mother to go on; but at last she
proceeded:
"But Scotty and me ain't ackwainted So to speak with
Hoss ways; he seems kinder Hum-sick if you may say that
of a Cretur. We air etarnally gratified to You for sech
a Valewble Pressent, but if you was Wiling we shood
Like to swapp it of in spring fur a kow, ourn Being
some in years.
"yours to Command, SARY PECK."
But long before Mrs. McAlister's permission to "swap" the horse reached
Scott Peck, the creature took his destiny into his own hands. Scott had
gone away on a desperate errand, to fetch some sort of food for the poor
creature, whose bones stared him in the face, and Sary went out one
morning to give him her potato-peelings and some scraps of bread, when,
suddenly, he jerked his head fiercely, snapped his halter in two, and
wheeled round upon the frightened woman, rearing, snorting, and showing
his long, yellow teeth. Sary fled at once and barred the door behind
her; but neither she nor Scott ever saw their "gift horse" again. For
aught I know he still roams the Adirondack forest, and maybe personates
the ghostly and ghastly white deer of song and legend. Who can tell? But
he was lifted off Scott Peck's shoulders, and all Scott said by way of
epitaph on the departed, when he came home to find his white steed gone,
was, "Hang presents!"
* * * * *
"Samantha Allen" will now have "a brief opportunity for remark."
Admire her graphic description of the excitement Josiah caused by
voting, at a meeting of the "Jonesville Creation Searchers," for his own
spouse as a delegate from Jonesville to the "Sentinel." She reports
thus:
"It was a fearful time, but right where the excitement was raining most
fearfully I felt a motion by the side of me, and my companion got up and
stood on his feet and says, in _pretty_ firm accents, though _some_
sheepish:
"'_I_ did, and there's where I stand now; _I_ vote for _Samantha_!'
"And then he sot down again. Oh, the fearful excitement and confusion
that rained down again! The president got up and tried to speak; the
editor of the _Auger_ talked wildly; Shakespeare Bobbet talked to
himself incoherently, but Solomon Cypher's voice drowned 'em all out, as
he kep' a-smitin' his breast and a hollerin' that he wasn't goin' to be
infringed upon, or come in contract with _no_ woman!
"No female woman needn't think she was the equal of man; and I should go
as a woman or stay to home. I was so almost wore out by their talk, that
I spoke right out, and, says I, '_Good land!_ how did you _s'pose_ I was
a-goin'?'
"The president then said that he meant, if I went I mustn't look upon
things with the eye of a 'Creation Searcher' and a man (here he p'inted
his forefinger right up in the air and waved it round in a real free and
soarin' way), but look at things with the eye of a private investigator
and a _woman_ (here he p'inted his finger firm and stiddy right down
into the wood-box and a pan of ashes). It war impressive--VERY."
MISS SLIMMENS SURPRISED.
_A Terrible Accident._
BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.
"Dora! Dora! Dora! wake up, wake up, I say! Don't you smell something
burning? Wake up, child! Don't you smell fire? Good Lord! so do I. I
thought I wasn't mistaken. The room's full of smoke. Oh, dear! what'll
we do? Don't stop to put on your petticoat. We'll all be burned to
death. Fire! fire! fire! fire!
"Yes, there is! I don't know where! It's all over--our room's all in a
blaze, and Dora won't come out till she gets her dress on. Mr. Little,
you _shan't_ go in--I'll hold you--you'll be killed just to save that
chit of a girl, when--I--I--He's gone--rushed right into the flames. Oh,
my house! my furniture! all my earnings! Can't anything be done? Fire!
fire! fire! Call the fire-engines! ring the dinner-bell! Be quiet! How
can I be quiet? Yes, it is all in flames. I saw them myself! Where's my
silver spoons? Oh, where's my teeth, and my silver soup-ladle? Let me
be! I'm going out in the street before it's too late! Oh, Mr. Grayson!
have you got water? have you found the place? are they bringing water?
"Did you say the fire was out? Was that you that spoke, Mr. Little? I
thought you were burned up, sure; and there's Dora, too. How did they
get it out? My clothes-closet was on fire, and the room, too! We would
have been smothered in five minutes more if we hadn't waked up! But it's
all out now, and no damage done, but my dresses destroyed and the carpet
spoiled. Thank the Lord, if that's the worst! But it _ain't_ the worst.
Dora, come along this minute to my room. I don't care if it is cold, and
wet, and full of smoke. Don't you see--don't you see I'm in my
night-clothes? I never thought of it before. I'm ruined, ruined
completely! Go to bed, gentlemen; get out of the way as quick as you can
Dora, shut the door. Hand me that candle; I want to look at myself in
the glass. To think that all those gentlemen should have seen me in this
fix! I'd rather have perished in the flames. It's the very first night
I've worn these flannel night-caps, and to be seen in 'em! Good
gracious! how old I do look! Not a spear of hair on my head scarcely,
and this red nightgown and old petticoat on, and my teeth in the
tumbler, and the paint all washed off my face, and scarred besides! It's
no use! I never, never can again make any of _those_ men believe that
I'm only twenty-five, and I felt so sure of some of them.
"Oh, Dora Adams! _you_ needn't look pale; you've lost nothing. I'll
warrant Mr. Little thought you never looked so pretty as in that ruffled
gown, and your hair all down over your shoulders. He says you were
fainting from the smoke when he dragged you out. You must be a little
fool to be afraid to come out looking _that_ way. They say that new
boarder is a drawing-master, and I seen some of his pictures yesterday;
he had some such ridiculous things. He'll caricature me for the
amusement of the young men, I know. Only think how my portrait would
look taken to-night! and he'll have it, I'm sure, for I noticed him
looking at me--the first that reminded me of my situation after the fire
was put out. Well, there's but one thing to be done, and that's to put a
bold face on it. I can't sleep any more to-night; besides, the bed's
wet, and it's beginning to get daylight. I'll go to work and get myself
ready for breakfast, and I'll pretend to something--I don't know just
what--to get myself out of this scrape, if I can....
"Good-morning, gentlemen, good-morning! We had quite a fright last
night, didn't we? Dora and I came pretty near paying dear for a little
frolic. You see, we were dressing up in character to amuse ourselves,
and I was all fixed up for to represent an old woman, and had put on a
gray wig and an old flannel gown that I found, and we'd set up pretty
late, having some fun all to ourselves; and I expect Dora must have been
pretty sleepy when she was putting some of the things away, and set fire
to a dress in the closet without noticing it. I've lost my whole
wardrobe, nigh about, by her carelessness; but it's such a mercy we
wasn't burned in our bed that I don't feel to complain so much on that
account. Isn't it curious how I got caught dressed up like my
grandmother? We didn't suppose we were going to appear before so large
an audience when we planned out our little frolic. What character did
Dora assume? Really, Mr. Little, I was so scared last night that I
disremember. She took off _her_ rigging before she went to bed. Don't
you think I'd personify a pretty good old woman, gentlemen--ha! ha!--for
a lady of my age? What's that, Mr. Little? You wish I'd make you a
present of that nightcap, to remember me by? Of course; I've no further
use for it. Of course I haven't. It's one of Bridget's, that I borrowed
for the occasion, and I've got to give it back to her. Have some coffee,
Mr. Grayson--do! I've got cream for it this morning. Mr. Smith, help
yourself to some of the beefsteak. It's a very cold morning--fine
weather out of doors. Eat all you can, all of you. Have you any profiles
to take yet, Mr. Gamboge? I _may_ make up my mind to set for mine before
you leave us; I've always thought I should have it taken some time. In
character? He! he! Mr. Little, you're so funny! But you'll excuse _me_
this morning, as I had such a fright last night. I must go and take up
that wet carpet."