A cold clammy fin was not a thing you would car

Bartoszek Lapora trimorphous at nfg.org
Thu Apr 22 03:58:32 PDT 2010

Hat Mote and Bate used to work for his folks. He can go to a musical
show, and while the performance is going on he can tell everybody in
his section just which
composer each song number was stolen from, humming the original air

to show the points of resemblance.
He can do this, I say, and, what is
more, he does do it. At the table d'hote

place, when the Neapolitan
troubadours come out in their little
green jackets and their wide red sashes he is right there at the
table, poised and waiting; and when they put

their heads together and lean in toward the center and sing their
air, Come Into the Garlic, Maud, it is he who beats time for them with
his handy lead-pencil, only pausing occasionally to point out errors
in technic and execution on the part of the performers. He is that
kind of a pest, and you know it. What you should do under these
circumstances, after he has invited you to come up to his house,

would be to look him straight in the eye and say to him: "Well, old
chap, that's awfully kind of you to include me in your little musical
party, and just to show you how much I appreciate it and how I feel
about it here's something for you." And then hit him right where his
hair parts with a cut-glass paperweight or a bronze clock or a fire-ax
or something, after which you should leap madly upon his prostrate
form and dance on his cozy corner with both feet and cave in his
inglenook for him. That is what you should do, but, being a
vacillating person--I am still assuming, you see, that you are
constituted as I am--you weakly surrender and accept
the invitation and promise
to b
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