can't stand this. I'll see MAX once more, and if he don't do the right
thing, I'll say that NILSSON was played out in Europe before she came
here, and that she is a complete failure."

YOUNG MAN, "Sweetest! may I ask you one question?"

YOUNG LADY. "No, you shan't. Will you keep quiet? Everybody is looking
at you."

EVERYBODY. "Sh! sh! sh!"

NILSSON sings again. As her delicious notes die out in the thunder of
applause, I make my way out of the Hall, into the clear and silent
night. For not even the witchery of VIEUXTEMPS'S violin is fit to mate
in memory with the peerless tones of NILSSON.

Here I meant to do some fine writing, but as this is PUNCHINELLO, and
not the "Easy Chair" of Harper's Magazine, I conquer the temptation.
Wherefore I accept the gratitude of my readers, and sign myself

MATADOR.

* * * * *

Congestion at "The Sun."

PUNCHINELLO is pained to know that the circulation of his bewitching
contemporary, _The Sun_, is daily growing more and more languid.
Paralysis has set in, and the patient but seldom has the energy to
dictate the daily bulletin giving the state of his circulation.