“Yoost a hant-orkan maan!”
“No! No! No oragan! I am a greata—greata merchant. Vote a Republican! Polititshian! To-bigli, Chititzen Republican. Naturalasize! March in a parade!”
Never lived native American prouder of his citizenship than this adopted one. Had he not voted at the election? Was he not a member of the great Republican party? He had eagerly joined it, for the reason that he had been a Republican in Italy, and he had drawn with him to the polls his second cousin, Leo Vesschi, and the five other Italians with whom he lived. For this, he had been rewarded by Pixley, his precinct committee-man, who allowed him to carry pink torches in three night processions.
“You keeb oud politigs,” said Bertha, earnestly, one evening. “My uncle, Louie Gratz, he iss got a neighbour-lady; her man gone in politigs. Aftervorts he git it! He iss in der bennidenshierry two years. You know why?”
“Democrat!” shouted the chestnut vender triumphantly.
“No, sir! Yoost politigs,” replied the unpartisan Bertha. “You keeb oud politigs.”
“Ahaha, du libra Ogostine,
Ogostine, Ogostine!
Ahaha, du libra Ogostine,
Nees coma ross.”
The song was always a teasing of her and carried all his friendly laughter at her, because of her German ways; but it became softly exultant whenever she betrayed her interest in him.
“Libra Ogostine, she afraid I go penitensh?” he inquired.
“Me!” she jeered with uneasy laughter. “I ain'd care! but you—you don' look oud, you git in dod voikhouse!”