COUSIN DEMPSTER is real good to me; no mistake about that. A day or two ago, he says to his wife, says he:
"Supposing we take Cousin Phœmie down to an oyster lunch at Fulton Market. That is one of the lions of the city."
I fairly hopped up from my chair when he said this, just as cool and easy as if he had been talking of rabbits lapping milk. What on earth had I to do with city lions, and such animals? Wild beasts like these are in no part of my mission, now are they?
Cousin E. E. saw the scare in my eyes, and smiled.
"I know it seems strange to people from outside," says she; "and it really is a dirty place; but somehow ladies and gentlemen have made it the rage."
"Do the creatures rage fiercely?" says I.
Cousin E. E. looked puzzled a minute, then she answered:
"Oh," says she, "fashion takes queer twists sometimes; in this case it really is unaccountable. The people crowding into those wooden dens—and the eating done there is wonderful."
"Eating!" says I, feeling my eyes grow big as saucers. "Eating! Do they feed before folks, then?"