Jenny. O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.
Bessie. O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!
Jenny. Yes, such a Precious Pickle!
Mrs. G. Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in town—precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for 'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing arter sermon.
Sadie. O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found that stolen fruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, and made a Precious Pickle.
[Curtain.]