"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for anything I know—but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm off!"
"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded to visit yet another establishment, "yes, I should like to hear something comic before the evening is over."
"Now is your opportunity, then," said Mr. Punch, taking his seat and inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"
"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.
"If it doesn't, I don't know what it does mean," replied Mr. Punch, as the Mastodon entered.
His mere appearance was calculated to provoke—and did provoke—roars of laughter, though TIME only gazed the more sadly at him. He had coarse black hair falling about his ears, a white face, and a crimson nose; he wore a suit of dingy plaid, a battered hat, and long-fingered thread gloves. And he sang, very slowly and dolefully, this side-splitting ballad:—
"We met at the corner, Marire and me.
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
She took and invited me 'ome to tea;