I bowed to the audience, bowed to the minister, bowed to the idiot who had misintroduced me, and then I began the thing, and to Ethel’s intense relief (for I happened to look at her) the audience burst out into laughter before I had finished the first verse. The second verse caused them to laugh still more, and instead of keeping my wits entirely on the matter in hand I allowed myself to think of both what my audience was doing and what the man had been saying, and the consequence was what it is apt to be if a man loses grip of his work. I lost my lines. I had recited the thing dozens of times, but now not a word would come to me. I smoothed my moustache and coughed in character, and took a step or two around the platform, as if I were leading up to some business and then I bowed suddenly and walked into the cloak room, where I was followed by Ethel, and for the next two minutes I had all I could do to restrain her sobs. She was hysterical.
As for me, I was angry clear through, and when the pastor came in I started to tell him, but he raised his hand and I saw that he understood better than I could say. He grasped my hand and I knew that he was a man of feeling.
“It’s all right,” said he. “The audience is laughing and applauding, and they think you meant to do it. Go back and give them something else.”
It was as if a flash of lightning had shown me a way of escape from a perilous lodgment.
“Do you mean it?” said I.
He opened the door a little and I could hear them clapping their hands.
“Ethel, I’ll go in and tell them that story I wrote for Mazie.”
Back to the platform I went, with my mind full of a nonsense story I had written for my niece.
I was received by enthusiastic applause, and heartened by their kindly feeling I told them the following story, which I called:
“The Mother of Little Maude and Little Maude.”