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“Awful!” she yellup. “Why must everything break what strikes you?”

“I am grieved.” This from me. “If that poet gentleman had less soft head it would not explode when striking mine.”

“It were an artistic bust,” she narrate while weeping.

“I notice this,” I reprobate while sweeping up small plaster fraxures from that great poetry.—And so onwards.

When Hon. Sulkz, important gentleman of Senator Penrose resemblance, retire homewards that night, he look round with anxious thumbs.

“I wish women could vote,” he exaggerate, “because then they would get less time for housekeeping and home would be left comfortable once in a whiles.”

Hon. Mrs. make pepper answer to this reply, but I were too busy dragging carpet downstairs by his ears.

At lastly morning of May date arrive. I awoke and called me early, wishing to think Tennyson poem, but could not do because rain ensued as usual and Italian-speaking shovels was digging gas-hole in street amidst intense odor of smell.

I hear noise of considerable “Whoa!” befront of house. Look see! Three swollen wagons resembling circus was there while 3 drivers, assisted by enlarged Irish, spoke language to horses wearing overalls.