I like to hear a woman sing,
and I like to hear a fiddle sing, but these noises they hammer out of
their wood and ivory anvils--don't talk to me, I know the difference
between a bullfrog and a woodthrush and--
Pop! went a small piece of artillery such as is made of a stick of elder
and carries a pellet of very moderate consistency. That Boy was in his
seat and looking demure enough, but there could be no question that he
was the artillery-man who had discharged the missile. The aim was not a
bad one, for it took the Master full in the forehead, and had the effect
of checking the flow of his eloquence. How the little monkey had learned
to time his interruptions I do not know, but I have observed more than
once before this, that the popgun would go off just at the moment when
some one of the company was getting too energetic or prolix. The Boy
isn't old enough to judge for himself when to intervene to change the
order of conversation; no, of course he isn't. Somebody must give him a
hint. Somebody.--Who is it? I suspect Dr. B. Franklin. He looks too
knowing. There is certainly a trick somewhere. Why, a day or two ago I
was myself discoursing, with considerable effect, as I thought, on some
of the new aspects of humanity, when I was struck full on the cheek by
one of these little pellets, and there was such a confounded laugh that I
had to wind up and leave off with a preposition instead of a good
mouthful of polysyllables.
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