Culch. Birds don't lay—er—I mean they don't sing, in the dark. My light has been—er—lacking of late.
Miss T. If that's intended for me, you ought to begin chirping right away. But you're not going to tell me you've been "lounjun round en sufferin'" like—wasn't it Uncle Remus's Brer Terrapin? (Catching C.'s look of bewilderment.) What, don't you know Uncle Remus?
Culch. (politely). Mr. TROTTER is the only relation of yours I have had the pleasure of meeting, as yet.
Miss T. Why, I reckoned Uncle Remus was pretty most everybody's relation by now. He's a book. But likely you've no use for our national humorous literature?
Culch. I—er—must confess I seldom waste time over the humorous literature of any nation.
Miss T. I guess that accounts for your gaiety! There, don't you mind me, Mr. CULCHARD. But suppose we hurry along and inspect this panorama they talk so much of; it isn't going to be any sideshow. It's just a real representative mass-meeting of Swiss mountains, with every prominent peak in the country on the platform, and a deputation down below from the leading Italian lakes. It's ever so elegant,—and there's Poppa around on the top too.
On the top. Tourists discovered making more or less appropriate remarks.
First Tourist (struggling with a long printed panorama, which flaps like a sail). Grand view, Sir, get 'em all from here, you see! Monte Rosa, Matterhorn, Breithorn—
[Works through them all conscientiously, until, much to everybody's relief, his panorama escapes into space.
Second T. (a lady, with the air of a person making a discovery). How wonderfully small everything looks down below!