He arose and opened the door, and the dogs shot from under the bed, and through the open door. Each departed, howling as if St. Nick was after him.
It was puzzling to say the least.
The comely daughter entered the room shortly, and the traveler addressed her as follows:
“What is the matter with those dogs?” he inquired.
“I dunno,” she replied, “Lessem one uv ’em brung somepin dead indoors. Dad allus kicks hell out’en the whole passell uv them when they do thet.”
* * *
The Young Gringo
Havana’s tropical sunshine, coupled with a few jolts of “Ron Bacardi Superior,” hath driven ye old cap’n to lyrical lines of lisping lingo. So I sit me down on my cane bottom chair with pencil stub in hand to transcribe that famous Cholo rhyme, “The Young Gringo.” The poem has to do with the proper actions of Americans in Cuba, and other tropical countries.
The first you must learn is to listen, not speak,
For the one thing we hate is a youngster with cheek,