Wot's the old song say:
"'Oh, love is like a bloomin' rose
But marriage is a bloomin' thorn.
An 'usband 's full o' bloomin' woes
An' 'caves a bloomin' sigh each morn--'"
"Why, Old Un!" exclaimed Ravenslee, "that's a very remarkable verse!"
"My land!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows in the doorway,
"I suspects he's a poet--an' him sech a nice little old gentleman!"
"A poet, ma'am!" exclaimed the Old Un indignantly, "not me, ma'am, not
me--should scorn t' be. I'm a 'ighly respected old fightin' man, I am,
as never went on th' cross:
"'A fightin' man I, ma'am,
An' wish I may die, ma'am,
If ever my backers I crossed;
An' what's better still, ma'am,
Though I forgot many a mill, ma'am,
Not one of 'em ever I lost.'"
"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes again. "What a memory!"
"Memory, ma'am!" growled Joe, "that ain't memory; 'e makes 'em up as 'e
goes along--"
"Joe," said the Old Un, glaring, "if the lady weren't here, an' axin'
'er pardon--I'd punch you in the perishin' eye-'ole for that!"
"All right, old vindictiveness," sighed Joe, "an' now, if you'll let go
of Spider Connolly's fist, I'd like to say 'ow do.
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