"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for
anything I know--but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm
off!"
"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded
to visit yet another establishment, "yes, I _should_ like to hear
something _comic_ before the evening is over."
"Now is your opportunity, then," said _Mr. Punch_, taking his seat and
inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to
appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"
"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.
"If it doesn't, I don't know what it _does_ mean," replied _Mr.
Punch_, as the Mastodon entered.
His mere appearance was calculated to provoke--and did provoke--roars
of laughter, though TIME only gazed the more sadly at him. He had
coarse black hair falling about his ears, a white face, and a crimson
nose; he wore a suit of dingy plaid, a battered hat, and long-fingered
thread gloves. And he sang, very slowly and dolefully, this
side-splitting ballad:--
"We met at the corner, Marire and me.
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
She took and invited me 'ome to tea;
Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
I sat in the parler along with her,
Tucking into the eggs and the bread and but-ter,--
When in come her Par with the kitching po-ker!
_Quite_ permiscuous! _Who'd_ ha' thought of it?"
There was a chorus, of course:--
"Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?
Who can guess what's going to be!
Whatever you fancy'll fall far short of it.
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