July 27 + 

To a pedantic prosy little old maid who was working in my room this morning, I exclaimed⁠— + 

“I’d sooner make a good dissection than go to a Lord Mayor’s Banquet. Turtle Soup ain’t in it.” + 

She was uninspired, and said, “Oom,” and went on pinning insects. Then more brightly, and with great punctilio in the pronunciation of her words, having cleared her throat and drawn herself up with great deliberation to deliver herself of a remark, she volunteered⁠— + 

“I whish I had nevah taken up such a brittle grooop as the Stones (Stoneflies). One dare not loook at a Stone.” + 

Poor dear little old maid. This was my turn to say “Oom.” + 

“Pretty dismal work,” I added ambiguously. Then with malice aforethought I whistled a Harry Lauder tune, asked her if she had ever heard Willie Solar sing, “You made me love you,” and then absentmindedly and in succession inquired⁠— + 

“What’s become of all the gold?” + 

“What’s become of Waring?” + 

“What shall I sing when all is sung?” + 

To which several categorical interrogations she ventured no reply, but presently in the usual voice⁠— + 

“I have placed an Agrionine in this drawer for security and, now I want it, cannot find it.” + 

“Life is like that,” I said. “I never can find my Agrionines!” + 