“‘Love miscarries—heh?
When a man marries—heh?’
When a man’s single he live at his is—you spik French, but yes?”
The lodge-keeper hawked up a glair of oaths, and discharged them. He swore by all his gods that he would cut off the intruder by the legs, unless he went out, and double quick, the way he had come. Then ensued a comical scene. The pierrot, affecting to retreat after a brief altercation, swerved suddenly and seated himself on the branch of a tree—
“O-ho!” he said, as the other came lumbering up, “it is vair well, but I make up my mind. I refuse madame, it is true. You know to marry, what it is? Listen, then—
“‘At the end of one year one baby:
That is jolly-fun!’”
The lodge-keeper, cursing, made a snatch at the man’s stilts; but, incredibly strong, he whipped them up out of reach, and held them so horizontal.
“‘At the end of two year two baby—
How it is a little serious!’”