Hark, —his tortured catgut squals He tickles every string, to every note He bends his pliant neck.—The fond yielding Maid Is tweedled into Love.

And the Mennonite boys don't consider her suitable. As you know, oil and water don't mix.

And they’ve got Professor Hummums with ’em, the great Everlasting Star of the Nineteenth Century, which he has breakfasted and dined and tea’d and supped here ever since yesterday.

What time are we going to get there?