“TOOK A FLIGHT AS IN ITS HAPPIER DAYS.”
“By St. Peter!” roars our host, and a mortal pallor diffused itself over his features, while a fire broke out on his wif face. “But no matter; let us continue, friends,” said he, calming down.
Oh, honest homes where a modest olla and a single dish constitute the daily happiness of a family, shun the perturbation of a birthday dinner-party! The custom of eating well and being well served every day can alone avert similar discomfiture.
Are there any more disasters? Alas, there are for my miserable self! Doña Juana, the lady with the black and yellow teeth, holds out to me from her plate and with her own fork a dainty bit, which I am bound to accept and swallow; the child diverts himself by shooting cherry-stones at the eyes of the assembly; Don Leandro makes me taste the delicious orange, which I had refused, squeezed into his glass, which preserves the indelible traces of his greasy lips; my fat friend is smoking, and makes me the flue of his chimney; finally, oh last of miseries! the clamour and uproar increase, voices already hoarse demand couplets and stanzas, and Figaro is the only poet present.
“You must.” “I for you to say something,” they all shout. “Start him with the first line; let him compose a couplet for each of us.” “I’ll start him:
‘To Don Braulio on this day.’”
“Gentlemen, for Heave sake!”
“Ther no getting out of it.”
“I’ve never improvised in my life.”