"What will you have now?" cried he. "I thought you would comprehend good singing at last."
"Give them a comic song," said I, in a whisper.
"A comic song! (aloud) Do you think that I would waste my talents in singing trash that any jackass could bray? No, sirra, my style is purely sentimental. I will give the ladies and gentlemen the 'Ivy Green.'"
He sang this beautiful original song, which is decidedly Russell's best, much in the same style as the former one, but, getting a little used to his eccentricities, we contrived to keep our gravity until he came to the chorus, "Creeping, creeping, creeping," for which he substituted, "crawling, crawling, crawling," when he was again interrupted by such a burst of merriment that he was unable to crawl any further.
"Well," said he, rising; "if you won't behave, I will leave the instrument to Mr. H---, and make one of the audience."
He had scarcely taken his seat, when the farmer from whom I had bought the butter forced his way up to the piano. Says he, "There's that pail; it is worth ten cents and a half. You must either pay the money, or give me back the pail.--(Hitching up his nether garments)--I s'pose you'll do the thing that's right."
"Oh, certainly, there are twelve and a half cents."
"I hav'nt change," said he, with a knowing look.
"So much the better; keep the difference."
"Then we're square, mister," and he sank back into his place.