Casimo Mazzette and Rosino Lodico were dago peasants, born in Palermo, Sicily. The groom was tall and proud and embarrassed, although ten years the senior of his eighteen-year-old bride, who was too coy to meet his gaze. She at first took Pod for a preacher, engaged to prompt the Mayor. According to the custom of their native heath, they simply joined hands, instead of using a wedding-ring,—a very sensible idea, for hard times. The pretty ceremony over, the bewitching female benedict looked at the Mayor, and moved toward him, and raised her face, but the embarrassed Mayor withdrew, to the astonishment of everyone, explaining that he was married to a jealous woman, and asked me to kiss the bride for him. He preferred to do the honors by proxy. So, without comment or hesitation, I stepped up to the pretty dago, placed my arm around her to avoid danger of making a bungle of the first kiss I ever gave a woman, drew her face to mine, and kissed her squarely on her ruby lips. She looked so happy that I was about to repeat the act, but her husband stepped between us. The pair shook hands with the Mayor and his clerical-looking assistant, who wished them lots of luck and "dagoettes," and then the blushing bride fled with her devoted swain out of the hall.
Next day I accepted for Mac an invitation to a phonograph exhibition in the Ellicott Building. We both attended and were richer for it. The room was well-filled with men and women who eagerly awaited the advertised show. When the manager courteously asked what was the donkey's favorite style of music I explained that, as he was a slow animal, he probably preferred lively music. At once the "yellow kid" held the tubes to the donkey's ears; those sensitive organs indicated his delight by each alternatively flapping forward and backward; but, suddenly, as they were thrown forward together, the jackass kicked an incandescent light globe above into flying fragments. Women screamed and fell into the arms of the men for protection.
"You said the donkey was gentle," said the manager, angrily.
"So he is," I returned.
"Then how do you account for such high kicking?"
"Struck a discord, I presume," I said. "What music is in that machine?"
The clerk answered. "The first p-p-piece was the "Darkey's Dream," said he, with slight impediment of speech, "but the s-s-second was "Schneider's Band."
"Who wouldn't kick!" I exclaimed. Due apologies were in order, and confidence was restored, and an hour later we two departed with the donkey's earnings and the well wishes of all.