“It are no true joy what leave a dark browny taste in morning,” I say for David Star Jordan expression.
“It are no true joy in the morning, but it are a very fine imitation of it the night before,” commute that sinny drunk.
“Hon. Horce, famous Roman writer, say-how whisky make poets sing,” is arrival for me.
“Suppose he are right,” say Hon. McCann. “I have often enjoyed singing in ears by early morning.”
I make note of this phenomenal.
“All saloons looks alike to me,” regret Hon. Drunk.
“So sad to hear!” I rake out. “Saloons is entirely different in appearance. Some is red, some pink, some plate-glassed by door to look like National-Bank—how you no tell difference?”
“We cross the bar at different places,” he report, “but we all come out in the same boat.”
“You regret downly path you took?” I ask it.