March. Not a bit of it. Don’t they come from the great city where there’s lots of grand uproars, organ-grinders, and fiddlers. I tell you, Mother Gale, they are pining for the delights of the city; and I’m a public benefactor, when, by the sound of my musical voice, I wake in their hearts tender recollections of “Home, sweet Home.” (Sings.)
“As I sailed, as I sailed.”
Mrs. G. I do wish you were sailing. Now, do stop, that’s a good boy. You make my head ache awfully.
March. Do I? why didn’t you say that before: I’m done. But, Mother Gale, what do you suppose sent these rich people to this desolate spot?
Mrs. G. It’s their whims, I s’pose: rich people are terrible whimsical. Mr. Raymond told your father he wanted a quiet place down by the sea.
March. Blest if he hasn’t got it! It’s almost as desolate here as poor old Robinson Crusoe’s Island.
Mrs. G. Well, well! p’raps he had a hankering for this spot, for he was born down here. Ah, me! how times do change. I remember the time when Abner Raymond was a poor fisherman’s boy. Law sakes, boy, when I was a gal, he used to come sparking me; and he and John Gale have had many a fight, all along of me. Well, he went off to the city, got edicated, and finally turned out a rich man.
March. You don’t say so. Why, Mother Gale, you might have been a rich lady.
Mrs. G. P’raps I might, March; p’raps I might: but I chose John Gale; and I never regretted it, never.
March. Bully for you, Mother Gale, and bully for Daddy Gale, too. He’s a trump. But I say, Mother Gale, isn’t Miss Kate a beauty? My eyes! Keep a sharp look-out, Mother Gale, a sharp eye on our Sept.; for, if I’m not much mistaken, he’s over head and ears in love with her.