"No, _no_," screamed Bertha, stopping her ears with her
forefingers. "Lies, lies, lies!"

A slatternly negro woman dawdled down the street the following
afternoon, and, encountering a friend of like description near the
cottage which had been tenanted by Louie Gratz and his niece, paused
for conversation.

"Howdy, honey," she began, leaning restfully against the
gate-post. "How's you ma?"

"She right spry," returned the friend. "How you'self an' you good
husban', Miz Mo'ton?"

Mrs. Morton laughed cheerily. "Oh, he enjoyin' de 'leckshum. He 'uz on
de picnic yas'day, to Smeltuh's ice-houses; an' 'count er Mist'
Maxim's gittin' 'lected, dey gi'n him bottle er whiskey an' two
dollahs. He up at de house now, entuhtainin' some ge'lemenfrien's
wi'de bones, honey."

"Um hum." The other lady sighed reflectively. "I on'y wisht my po'
husban' could er live to enjoy de fruits er politics."

"Yas'm," returned Mrs. Morton. "You right. It are a great intrus' in
a man's life. Dat what de ornator say in de speech f'm de back er de
groce'y wagon, yas'm, a great intrus' in a man's life. Decla'h, I
b'lieve Goe'ge think mo' er politics dan he do er me! Well ma'am," she
concluded, glancing idly up and down the street and leaning back more
comfortably against the gatepost, "I mus' be goin' on my urrant."