“It’s a wonder, indeed, no one gib you a lif’!” several voices observed, but the discussion was drowned by an esoteric song of remote, tribal times from the lips of Papy Paul.
“I am King Elephant-bag,
Ob de rose-pink Mountains!
Tatou, tatouay, tatou....”
provoking a giggle from Miss Stella Spooner, the marvellous daughter of an elderly father, and in which she was joined by the youngest Miss Mouth.
Incontestably a budding Princess, the playful mite was enjoying, with airy nonchalance, her initial experience of Society.
“Ob course she is very jeune,” Mrs. Mouth murmured archly, behind her hand, into the ear of Mr. Musket.
“It’s de Lord’s will,” he cautiously replied, rolling a mystified eye towards his wife (a sable negress out of Africa), continually vaunting her foreign extraction: “I’m Irish,” she would say: “I’m Irish, deah....”
“Sh’o she de born image ob her elder sister!”