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Osbourne, Lloyd, 1868-1947

"Love, the Fiddler"

I tell you he was worth four and eightpence,
and the man was right when he said there wasn't his match in
London. I doubt if there was his match anywhere for being plumb-
full of red balls and green balls and blue balls and crimson stars
and fizzlegigs and whole torrents of tiny crackers and chase-me-
quicks, and when you about thought he was never going to stop he
shot up a silver spray and a gold spray and wound up with a very
considerable decent-sized bust.
"I must thank you for your good nature," I said to the young lady.
"Are you a typical American?" she asked. "Oh, so-so," I returned.
"There are heaps like me in New York."
"And do they all do this on the Fourth of July?" she asked.
"Every last one!" I said.
"Fancy!" she said.
"In America," I said, "when a man has received one favour he is
certain to make it the stepping-stone for another. Won't you
permit me to walk across the park to Castle Fyles?"
"Castle Fyles?" she repeated, with a little note of curiosity in
her girlish voice. "Then don't you know that this is Fyles Park?"
"Can't say I did," I returned. "But I am delighted to hear it."
"Why are you delighted to hear it?" she asked, making me feel more
than ever like an escaped lunatic.
"This is the home of my ancestors," I said, "and it makes me glad
to think they amount to something--own real estate--and keep their
venerable heads above water."
"So this is the home of your ancestors," she said.


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