Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/465

he, "before night she'll be talking a blue streak. She can't help it, poor child! it's her one infirmity."

"Never you mind, Cream Pitcher," said I; "I hope you'll be alive and uncracked to see the end of this. For when I open my lips to that man there, you'll be an older and a wiser pitcher."

Now what did we quarrel about? There were so many things. I know! I know! It was the Centennial Ball. Tom hadn't told me he could dance, and when the committee invited us to be in the opening minuet, he said, as gravely as you please—Tom could be perfectly owlish when he was vicious,—

"Why, yes, I should be delighted; only I might fall over things."

But they wanted him because he was so splendid, and I undertook to coach him. My dear, if you could have seen us! I'd curtsy, and then make him bow. He'd imitate the bow—and tumble over nothing. I coaxed, and scolded, and bowed till I was faint. He said I acted like a frantic mother bird. I wore a train, so he could get used to it. He wound himself up in it. When we were to rehearse with the others, it always happened Tom couldn't go, and Larry Upham took his place. When I couldn't go, Tom did; but I never dared to ask the others how he performed with them. He always came home hot and tired, and told me he'd disgraced himself.

Well, the night of the ball we were dressed at eight. I insisted on it.

"Come into the parlor, Tom," said I, "and go through the steps."

There we were, he in his knee-breeches and gold lace, I in my brocade. Powdered hair, dear?—yes, and patches; mine was a star here on the chin. Yes, my dear, we were a good-looking couple. Your uncle was magnificent, and I—well! well! well! Yes, there we were in the parlor.

"Now, Tom," said I, "that chair is Mrs. Arthur Bush. This is Harry Lake. This is Helen. You are you, and I am I."

"Oh!" said he, like a zany. "I am I, am I?"

Then I began humming the Minuet from Don Giovanni [hums it and dances, talking]—you know, dear.

"Now! now, Tom!" said I. "Bow!"

My dear, he bowed—and fell over a chair—Mrs. Arthur Bush. He got up—and fell over another.

"Tom," said I, "it's no use. Larry Upham must take your place."

"All right, dear," said he. "I'll speak to him."

I never saw your uncle so de-