Katy. Go on wid the lether.
Gyp. "De moon on de lake am beamin', de lubly sunflower perfumeries in de garden, de tuneful frogs meliferously warble in de riber, an' de breezes blow fro' de treeses; but my lub, my lub, whar, oh, whar am she?"
Katy. I don't belave—
Gyp (as before). See fur yerself, see fur yerself!
Katy. Oh, quit yees talkin' an' talkin'. Go on wid the lether.
Gyp. "My lub she isn't hansum,
My lub she isn't fair;
But to cook de beef and 'taters
Can't beat her anywhar."
Dat's potry, Katy, dat is; alwus find lots ob dat in lub-letters: it gibs dem a flabor.
Katy. I don't belave it's there.
Gyp (as before). See fur yerself, see fur yerself!
Katy. Go on wid the lether.