After it was all over, Wilbur, the
gallant young tone poet, comes gushing up to me and says, 'Now, aunty,
always when you are in town you must drop round and break bread with
us.' Aunty, mind you, right off the reel. 'Well,' I says, 'if I drop
round to break any bread your wife bakes I'll be sure to bring a
hammer.' I couldn't help it. He'll make a home for the girl all right,
but he does something sinful to my nerves every time he opens his face.
And then coming back here, where I looked for God's peace and quiet, and
being made to hear that darned song every time I turned round!
"I give orders plain enough, but say, it's like a brush fire--you never
know when you got it stamped out."
From the kitchen came the sound of a dropped armful of stove wood. Hard
upon this, the unctuous whining tenor of Jimmie Time:
Oh-h-h mem-o-reez thu-hat blu-hess and bu-hurn!
"You, Jimmie Time!" It is a voice meant for Greek tragedy and a theatre
open to the heavens. I could feel the terror of the aged vassal.
"Yes, ma'am!" The tone crawled abasingly. "I forgot myself."
I was glad, and I dare say he had the wit to be, that he had not to face
the menace of her glare.
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