"Why, don't ye see, ye omadhaun, didn't that same mimber av the family wurrk on Sixty-second Street?"
Then the rattle of an elevated train drowned the rest.
I felt that I had lost five dollars by not hearing how Hans got back again.
Sometimes when the Sunday morning bells calling to church jangle from various spires, I think of the well-known old poem on the subject of their music; and then my mind goes out to other belles, to be seen parading in their best gowns, ready to break the hearts of admiring mankind.
And talking about women makes you think of song. Wine, women and song, you know. We'll cut out the wine and have the song. Here she goes:
Oh! the belles!
Summer belles!
What a plentitude of heartaches their giddiness compels;
How they giggle, giggle, giggle,
In the sea-breeze laden night,
How their victims squirm and wriggle
In an ecstasy of fright.
How they hurt
When they flirt,
When with ghoulish glee they gloat
On the squirming of a fellow when they have him by the throat.
Oh! the belles!
Brazen belles!
How they conjure, scheme and plan
To entrap the summer man,
The ribbon counter gentlemen who masquerade as swells.