THE MARE AND THE MOTOR


Them Todds had got on my nerves. 'Twas Peter's ad that brought 'em down.
You see, 'twas 'long toward the end of the season at the Old Home, and
Brown had been advertising in the New York and Boston papers to "bag
the leftovers," as he called it. Besides the reg'lar hogwash about the
"breath of old ocean" and the "simple, cleanly living of the bygone
days we dream about," there was some new froth concerning hunting and
fishing. You'd think the wild geese roosted on the flagpole nights, and
the bluefish clogged up the bay so's you could walk on their back fins
without wetting your feet--that is, if you wore rubbers and trod light.

"There!" says Peter T., waving the advertisement and crowing gladsome;
"they'll take to that like your temp'rance aunt to brandy cough-drops.
We'll have to put up barbed wire to keep 'em off."

"Humph!" grunts Cap'n Jonadab. "Anybody but a born fool'll know there
ain't any shooting down here this time of year."

Peter looked at him sorrowful. "Pop," says he, "did you ever hear that
Solomon answered a summer hotel ad? This ain't a Chautauqua, this is
the Old Home House, and its motto is: 'There's a new victim born every
minute, and there's twenty-four hours in a day.' You set back and count
the clock ticks."