Drippings From the Fawcett
My friend Norton took me around Minneapolis recently on an evening’s jaunt to see the “sights.” After visiting two or three moonlit stores, Norton suggested that I be introduced to his sweetheart. Brother Norton, being fairly well varnished with fusel oil and white mule, called at the wrong house. A colored maid answered the door bell.
“Is (hic) Daisy at home?” he inquired.
“No, suh,” replied the maid.
“Then is Pansy here?” said Norton.
“No, suh.”
“Does Violet live here?”
“No, suh.”
“Then is (hic) Rose in?”
“No, suh, and look here, Mistuh, dis place ain’t no hot house.”