All the stories sung by the sweet singers of all time were echoing in
our ears--stories of true love that would not run smoothly until the
last chapter; of gallant lovers strong and brave against fate; of
tender sweethearts, waiting, trusting, till love's golden crown was
won; so they married and lived happy ever after.

Then stepped briskly on the platform a stout, bald-headed man. We
greeted him with enthusiasm--it was the local low comedian. The
piano tinkled saucily. The self-confident man winked and opened wide
his mouth. It was a funny song; how we roared with laughter! The
last line of each verse was the same:

"And that's what it's like when you're married."

"Before it was 'duckie,' and 'darling,' and 'dear.' Now it's 'Take
your cold feet away, Brute! can't you hear?'

"Once they walked hand in hand: 'Me loves ickle 'oo.' Now he
strides on ahead" (imitation with aid of umbrella much appreciated;
the bald-headed man, in his enthusiasm and owing to the smallness of
the platform, sweeping the lady accompanist off her stool), "bawling:
'Come along, do.'"

The bald-headed man interspersed side-splitting patter. The husband
comes home late; the wife is waiting for him at the top of the stairs
with a broom. He kisses the servant-girl. She retaliates by
discovering a cousin in the Guards.

The comic man retired to an enthusiastic demand for an encore. I
looked around me at the laughing faces. Miss Butcher had been