The Journal of a Disappointed Man

H.: "I shan't believe you're dead till I see your tombstone. I shall then say to the Sexton, 'Is he really dead, then?' and the Sexton will say, 'Well, 'ee's buried onny way.'" Bob was not quite in sympathy with our boisterous spirits. May 15. Gardening Sought out H---- as he was watering his petunias in the garden. He informed me he was going to London on Monday. H.: "Mother is coming too." B.: "Why?" H.: "Oh! I'm buying my kit--shirts and things. I sail at the beginning of July." B.: "I suppose shirts are difficult to buy. You wouldn't know what to do with one if you had one. Your mother will lead you by the hand into a shop and say, 'H----, dear, this is a shirt,' and you'll reply with pathos, 'Mother what are the wild shirts saying?'" H.: "You're a B.F." (goes on watering). "I wonder what you'd do if you were let loose in a big garden," I began. H.: "I should be as happy as a bird. I should hop about, chirrup and lay eggs. You should have seen my tomato plants last year--one was as tall as father." B.: "Now tell me of the Gooseberry as big as Mother." Mutual execrations. Then we grinned and cackled at each other, emitting weird and ferocious cachinnations. Several times a day in confidential, serious tones--after one of these explosions--we say, "I really believe we're mad." You never heard such extraordinary caterwaulings. Our snappy conversations are interrupted with them every minute or so!