"Bob—this!—after all I've done for that young man! I have even gone out of my Way to cultivate in him a taste for poetry—until he is now, in fact, quite wrapped up in it—indeed, so much so, that for a time he was nothing but a brown paper parcel labelled Poetry."
H. (doggedly): "When are you going to die?"
"That Master H——," I answered menacingly, "is on the knees of the Gods."
H.: "I shan't believe you're dead till I see your tombstone. I shall then say to the Sexton, 'Is he really dead, then?' and the Sexton will say, 'Well, 'ee's buried onny way.'"
Bob was not quite in sympathy with our boisterous spirits.
May 15.
Gardening
Sought out H—— as he was watering his petunias in the garden. He informed me he was going to London on Monday.
H.: "Mother is coming too."
B.: "Why?"