“If it is so,” said Mr. Newt, “your Uncle Lawrence is the happiest miserable man I ever knew.”
“Well, there’s a difference among men, you know, father. Some wear their miseries like an order in their button-holes. Some do as the Spartan boy did when the wolf bit him.”
“How’d the Spartan boy do?” asked Mr. Newt.
“He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead.”
“Gracious!” said Mr. Boniface Newt.
“Or like Boccaccio’s basil-pot,” continued Abel, calmly; pouring forth smoke, while his befogged papa inquired,
“What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio’s basil-pot?”
“Why, a girl’s lover had his head cut off, and she put it in a flower-pot, and covered it up that way, and instead of laughing herself, set flowers to blooming over it.”
“Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?”
“Of Love, the canker-worm, Sir,” replied Abel, imperturbable, and emitting smoke.