I don't know anything about them, but I'll gamble that they are
the kind of people that have pictures of the family and wreaths
in the parlor. They looked fine and daisy last night, though.
Probably the grape. My girl's name was Estelle. Wouldn't that
scald you? Estelle handed me a lot of talk about having seen
me on the street for the last two years, and how she had always
been dying to meet me, and I got swelled up and bought wine like
a horse owner. Johnny was shaking his head and motioning for me
to chop, but what cared I? Estelle was saying, "He done it,"
"I seen it," and "Usen't you?" right along, but the grape stood
for everything.
Estelle's friend was talking about her piano, and how hard it
was to get good servants nowadays, and say, Jim, I've heard
knockers in my time, but Estelle is the original leader of the
anvil chorus. She just put everybody in town on the pan and
roasted them to a whisper. She could build the best battleship
Dewey ever saw with her little hammer. Estelle's friend, after
much urging, then sang a pathetic ballad entitled, "She Should
Be Scolded, but Not Turned Adrift," and I sat there with one
eye shut, so that I could see single, and kept saying, "Per'fly
beauf'ful."
About this time I commenced to forget. I remember getting an
awful rise out of Estelle by remarking that her switch didn't
match her hair.
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