A LAFF.
Men who never laff, may have good hearts, but they are deep seated,—like sum springs, they hav their inlet and outlet from below, and show no sparkling bubble on the brim.
I don’t like a gigler, this kind ov laff iz like the dandylion, a feeble yeller, and not a bit ov good smell about it.
It iz true that enny kind of a laff iz better than none,—but giv me the laff that looks out ov a man’s eyes fust, to see if the coast is clear, then steals down into the dimple ov his cheek, and rides in an eddy thare awhile, then waltzes a spell, at the korners ov his mouth, like a thing ov life, then busts its bonds ov buty, and fills the air for a moment with a shower ov silvery tongued sparks,—then steals bak, with a smile, to its liar, in the harte, tew watch agin for its prey,—this is the kind ov laff that i luv, and aint afrade ov.