My Wife and I; Or, Harry Henderson's History

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

Not a penny—paid to any,

So far as I observe—"

"Gracious, Jim! what a noise!" said I, as he entered the room with a perfect war-whoop on the chorus.

"Bless my soul, man, why arn't you dressing? Arn't you going up to the garden of Eden with me to night, to see the woman, and the serpent, and all that?" he said, collaring me without ceremony. "Come away to your bower, and curl your nut-brown hair; for

Time roils along,

Nor waits for mortal care or bliss,

We'll take our staff and travel on,

Till we arrive where the pretty gals is."

And thus singing, Jim whirled me down the stairs, and tumbled me into my room, and went into his, where I heard him accompanying his toilet operations with very loud selections from the last comic opera, beating time with his hair-brush in a bewildering manner.