A bazaar is cedar and tacks and girls
and raw-cake and step-ladders and Austin Grays and a bass solo by Bill
Stacy, and net profits $2.65.
Albert has got his new uniform and Alf Menille is in town, and tile
store needs the "fine Italian hand" of the bookkeeper very much, besides
some of his plain Anglo-Saxon conversation.
Was interviewed yesterday by Gen'l Smith, Clay's father. He wants Jim
S. and me to represent a manufactory in Jeff. City: Convict labor. Says
parties in Galveston and Houston are making good thing of it. Have taken
him up. Hope to be at work soon. Glad, by jingo! Shake. What'll you
have? Claret and sugar? Better come home. Colorado no good.
Strange thing happened in Episcopal Church Sunday. Big crowd. Choir had
sung jolly tune and preacher come from behind scenes. Everything quiet.
Suddenly fellow comes down aisle. Late. Everybody looks. Disappointment.
It is a stranger. Jones and I didn't go. Service proceeds.
Jones talks about his mashes and Mirabeau B. Lamar, daily. Yet there
is hope. Cholera infantum; Walsh's crutch; Harvey, or softening of the
brain may carry him off yet.
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