I’d heard that word several times on the street. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Was that hysterics to-day?” I says. “I’ve often wondered what they’re like. I’ve never had the time to have them, myself. Well,” I says, tired but serene, “if that was hysterics, leave ’em make the most of it.”
I looked at her, meditative.
“Miss Markham and you and the women that marched to-day and me,” I says. “And a hundred years from now we’ll all be conservatives together. And there’ll be some big new day coming on that would startle me now, just the same as it would you. But the way I feel to-night, honest—I donno but I’m ready for that one too.”
MR. DOMBLEDON
He came to my house one afternoon when I was just starting off to get a-hold of two cakes for the next meeting of the Go-lightly club, and my mind was all trained to a peak, capped with the cakes.
Says he: “Have you got rooms to let?”
For a minute I didn’t answer him, I was so knee deep in looking at the little boy he had with him—the cutest, lovin’est little thing I’d ever seen. But though I love the human race and admire to see it took care of, I couldn’t sense my way clear to taking a boy into my house. Boys belongs to the human race, to be sure, just as whirling egg-beaters belongs to omelettes, but much as I set store by omelettes I couldn’t invite a whirling egg-beater into my home permanent.
Says I: “Not to boys.”
He laughed—kind of a pleasant laugh, fringed all round with little laughs.