Did you ever get ready and go to a _musicale_?
Isn't it the velvet goods?
They pulled off one at Jack Frothingham's last Wednesday evening and
I had to walk up and down the aisle with the rest of the bunch.
Mind you, I like Jack, so this is no secret conclave of the Anvil
Association.
Only, I wish to put him wise that when he gives his next _musicale_
my address is Forest Avenue, in the woods.
When I reached Jack's house the Burnish Brothers were grabbing
groutchy music out of a guitar that didn't want to give up, and the
mad revel was on.
The Burnish Brothers part their hair in the middle and always do "The
Washington Post" march on their mandolins for an encore.
If Mr. Sousa ever catches them there'll be a couple of shine
chord-squeezers away to the bad.
When the Burnish Brothers took a bow and backed off we were all
invited to listen to a soprano solo by Miss Imogene Lukewarm.
Somebody went around and locked the doors, so I made up my mind to
die game.
A foolish friend once told Imogene she could sing, so she went out
and bought up a bunch of tra-la-la's and began to beat them around
the parlor.
When Imogene sings she makes faces at herself.
If she needs a high note she goes after like she was calling the
dachshund in to dinner.
Imogene sang "Sleep, Sweetly Sleep," and then kept us awake with her
voice.
After Imogene crept back to her cave we had the first treat of the
evening, and the shock was so sudden it jarred us.
Uncle Mil came out and quivered a violin obligato entitled "The Lost
Sheep in the Mountain," and it was all there is.
Uncle Mil was the only green spot in the desert.
When he gathered the gourd up under his chin and allowed the bow to
tiptoe over the bridge you could hear the nightingale calling to its
mate.
I wanted to get up a petition asking Uncle Mil to play all the
evening and make us all happy, but Will Bruce wouldn't let me.
Will said he wasn't feeling very well and he wanted to hear the rest
of the program and feel worse.
He got his wish.
The next thing we had was Sybil, the Illusionist.
Sybil did a lot of mouldy tricks with cards and every few minutes she
fell down and sprained her sleight of hand.
Sybil was a polish for sure.
Then Swift McGee, the Boy Monologuist, flung himself in the breach
and told a bunch of Bixbys.
It was a cruel occasion.
Swift had an idea that when it came to cracking merry booboos he
could pull Lew Dockstader off the horse and leave him under the fence.
As a monologuist Swift thought he had George Fuller Golden half way
across the bay, and Fred Niblo was screaming for help.
Swift often told himself that he could give Marshall P. Wilder six
sure-fires and beat him down to the wire.
Swift is one of those low-foreheads who "write their own stuff" and
say "I done it!"
After Swift had talked the audience into a chill, he pushed on and
left us with a stone bruise on our memories.
Then we had Rufus Nelson, the parlor prestidigitator.
Rufus was a bad boy.
He cooked an omelet in a silk hat and when he gave the hat back to
Ed. Walker the poached eggs fell out and cuddled up in Ed's hair.
Rufus apologized and said he'd do the trick over again if someone
else would lend him a hat, but there was nothing doing.
When the contralto crawled under the ropes and began to tell us that
the bells in the village rang ding-ding-dong I was busy watching a
Goo-goo Bird.
Did you ever spot one of those Glance-Givers?
This chap's name was Llewellyn Joyce, and he considered himself a
perfect hellyon.
He thought all he had to do was to roll his lamps at a lassie and she
was off the slate.
Llewellyn loved to sit around at the _musicale_ and burn the belle of
the ball, with his goo-goo eyes.
Llewellyn needed a swift slap--that's what he needed.
Next we had the Nonpariel Quartette, and they were the boys that
could eat up the close harmony!
They sang "Love, I am Lonely!" from start to finish without stopping
to call the waiter.
Then we had Clarissa Coldslaw in select recitations.
She was all the money.
Clarissa grabbed "Hamlet's Soliloquy" between her pearly teeth and
shook it to death.
She got a half-Nelson on Poe's "Raven" and put it out of the business.
Then she gave an imitation of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.
If Juliet talked like that dame did, no wonder she took poison.
But when she let down her hair and started in to give us a mad
scene--me to the sand dunes!
It was a case of flee as a bird with yours respectfully.
Those _musicale_ things would be aces if the music didn't set them
back.