Episode of the Titian Beard
"Whiskers short and whiskers long,
Whiskers weak and whiskers strong,
Why, this is the place where I belong."
My robustious guest was in a mood even more mellow and melodious after his glass had been thrice filled with champagne, and with his beard parted and flung back over his shoulders like a pair of brilliant sash-curtains he burst into snatches of deep-sea chanties mingled with the original couplet:
"Where the seas are high and the wind so gay
Blows through my whiskers every day."
At length I was able to stem the tide of convivial song and roaring talk and broached the burning topic at issue:
"I wish to paint your beard, Mr. Wilkins, in order to add it to my collection, some of whose exhibits caught your notice in the library."
"Paint my nose sky-blue and pink rings around my dead-lights," thundered Mr. Wilkins, as he pounded the table so that the
