186 FARMING IT 



with some style, but a fellow must have his little fling first, 

 and there 's nothin' like being up to date. (Goes out whis- 

 tling "Shoo Fly," stops and bows profoundly as Mrs. 

 Grandiflora enters.) There, that's what I call style. 

 (Aside.) 



Mrs. Grandiflora (in hat of terriflc size, flamboyant with 

 feathers, and ribbons in three different shades of red; yellow 

 parasol, and lorgnette made of eye-glasses lashed to tip of 

 bamboo fishing-rod; purple dress, if possible). Well, good 

 afternoon, Mr. Seed. 



Seed (coming from behind the counter, dusts chair, places 

 it with profound bow). Good afternoon, Mrs. Grandi- 

 flora. 



Mrs. G. (seats herself, raises lorgnette to her eyes) . 

 Have you heard of the new engagement? 



Seed. There beant another, be they ? 'Cause 'f there 

 be, I 'm goin' to lay in a new stock of wooden ware. 



Mrs. G. No, no new one, but such sweet things as they 

 are, and so well suited to each other. You know Pope says, 



"Man is the ragged loafing pine, 

 Woman the gentle jimson vine, 

 Whose scalping tendrils round him twine." 



But he 's real smart, and she 's just like a jimson vine, just 

 clasping him every chance she can get. Ain't Pope just 

 too sweet for anything ? I do enjoy Pope and Bridewell and 

 McAuley. McAuley is just divine, and it was so strange 

 that he should become a prize-fighter afterwards. But, then, 

 literary people are queer just like musicians. There was 

 Sullivan, you know, the prize-fighter, who wrote the most 

 beautiful song about some poor organ-player sitting play- 

 ing his organ one night, and someone came along and 



