Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
In a thick cushioned
morris-chair reclined the motionless form of Uncle John, a chubby little
man in a gray suit, whose features were temporarily eclipsed by the
newspaper that was spread carefully over them. Occasionally a gasp or a
snore from beneath the paper suggested that the little man was
"snoozing" as he sometimes gravely called it, instead of listening to
the music.
Major Doyle sat opposite, stiffly erect, with his admiring eyes full
upon Patsy. At times he drummed upon the arms of his chair in unison
with the music, nodding his grizzled head to mark the time as well as to
emphasize his evident approbation. Patsy had played this same piece from
start to finish seven times since dinner, because it was the only one
she knew; but the Major could have listened to it seven hundred times
without the flicker of an eyelash. It was not that he admired so much
the "piece" the girl was playing as the girl who was playing the
"piece." His pride in Patsy was unbounded. That she should have
succeeded at all in mastering that imposing looking instrument--making
it actually "play chunes"--was surely a thing to wonder at. But then,
Patsy could do anything, if she but tried.
Suddenly Uncle John gave a dreadful snort and sat bolt upright, gazing
at his companions with a startled look that melted into one of benign
complacency as he observed his surroundings and realized where he was.
The interruption gave Patsy an opportunity to stop playing the tune. She
swung around on the stool and looked with amusement at her newly
awakened uncle.
"You've been asleep," she said.
"No, indeed; quite a mistake," replied the little man, seriously. "I've
only been thinking."
"An' such _beaut_chiful thoughts," observed the Major, testily, for he
resented the interruption of his Sunday afternoon treat. "You thought
'em aloud, sir, and the sound of it was a bad imithation of a bullfrog
in a marsh. You'll have to give up eating the salad, sir."
"Bah! don't I know?" asked Uncle John, indignantly.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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