I smile, then say to Robet, “When he and you are married I will go.” Then I eye her sideways.
O what a drop! My Charley untruthful! When he says my church raises money untruthfully in its fairs and suppers.
I was about to have him teach this people how Christ incarnated is to come on the earth from the clouds. Shall I now do so instead? Yes. I select the Traveler’s daughter as one quite wayward, and say: “Dear lady, an American (oh no!) a man like us little folks is in the sky; some day he will come down and make us golden streets,” smiling broadly.
“What is gold?” she inquires.
“Something harder than rock.”
“’Twill hurt your feet; grass is better.”
“Glass houses,” I continue. “That is fine.”
“No one will marry.” O what a face she makes.
“No dear little children?” she pleads.
“No one dies,” I continue.