I understood his little dodge and nipped it.

“Snowball,” said I, addressin’ a dark skinned individual with a white apern, while I was seated at the dinner table, “what in the deuce makes all your dishes so small?”

“Dem is for one pusson, sah,” said he.  “Dat is an indiwidual butter dish, sah.  Dem is indiwidual vegetable dishes—­and dat’s an indiwidual salt-cellar, sah,” said he, pintin’ to each piece of crockery.

I was hungry, and the crockery was soon empty.

Seein’ a platter of ice cream down the table aways, I got up onto my feet, and havin’ a good long arm, reached for it.

It was awful cold, and sot my stumps to achin’.

I got one holler tooth full of the stuff.

“Snowball,” said I, “look here.”

“Well, sah?” he replied.

“I’ve got my tooth full of that cold puddin’,” said I, pintin’ to the dish; “please bring me an individual toothpick, so I can dig it out.”  He vanished.  I coulden’t wait, so I undertook to dig it out with my fork.

A man opposite me, who thot heed play smart, sent word to the tavern-keeper that I was swollerin’ his forks.

Up comes the tavern-keeper, and ketchin’ holt of my cote coller, shaked me out in the middle of the dinin’-room floor.

“What in thunder are you about?” says I.

“Old man,” says he, “them forks cost $9.00 a dozen.  How many have you swallered?”

“Not a gol darned fork,” hollered I as loud as I could screem.  Gittin’ onto my feet, I pulled off my cote and vest, and if I didn’t make the fur fly, and give that ‘ere tavern-keeper the nisest little polishin’ off mortal man ever become acquainted with, then I don’t understand the roodiments of the English prize ring.

At Central Park, that hily cultivated forrest, the sharpers tried to chissel me.

Just as I approched the gate which leads into the Park, a fansy lookin’ feller with short hair and plad briches stopt me and says:  “Unkle, you’r fair.”

“You’re a man of excellent judgment,” I replide; “I think I am pooty good lookin’ for a man of my years.”

“You don’t undertand me, sir,” he agin said.  “Come down with your stamps.”

“My which?” said I, turnin’ a little red in the face.

“Your gate money,” he replied, tryin’ to shove me back.  “We charge $1.00 for goin’ in here.”

“You do, do you?” said I, wavin’ my umbreller over his head threatenin’ manner.  “When our goverment resooms speshie payment agin maybe I’le send you a silver dollar with a hole into it, and maybe I won’t; it will depend a good deal on the pertater crop.”

I was very much agitated.  Pullin’ out my silver watch I says:  “My sweet sented Plumbob, if you don’t histe your butes away from that gate in 2 seconds I’le bust your biler with this ’ere bunch of bones,” and I tickled the end of his probocis with my fist, as I gently rubbed it under his smeller.