“Lons!” cryes he in thoondering toans. “I cut lons! Why me deer sister its aginst me most artistick instink” ses he. “Its wan of me firm and uncontradictible opinyons that lons shud remane uncut. Why annyone can have _cut_ lons. Luk at the places around us, widout an ixcipshun the lons are cut slick and smooth as a yooths chin. I tell you sister mine” ses he “its more artistick to let your grass grow long.” “Nonsinse” ses Miss Claire. Here Mr. John tuk up the coodgills for his sister. “Unkemp lons” ses he, “are artistick on the same principle as the ass is a boheemyun who smoaks and drinks in out of way outlandish joynts and has an inborn prejydiss aginst a manicar parlor. ‘Dirty nales’ ses he, in the like toan of me brother ‘is artistick.’ Jimmy, boy, explane the artistick sinse of uncut lons?” “Deny it if you can” shouted Mr. James, thoomping on the table “I challinge you. Do you mane to assert that the fat broaker who kapes his lons and drives clane as a well swipt parlor has the same artistick sinse as the chap who lets his grarss grow gracefully aloft kissing the gintle seffers which swape the jewey——” Here I heard the contemshus russel of Mr. John’s paper. “Do be sinsible Jimmy” ses Mrs. Wolley. “Claire is quite right. The lons must be cut. If we don’t cut them nobody’ll call on us. We’ll be marked and shunned in this community.” Here both Mr. James and John assayed to spake at wanse, the latter aisily being drowned out by the thoonder toans of the hedstrung orthor. “Mother!” ses he “I’m ashamed of you. Can I beleeve me eers. Is it me own mother—the woman who gave me berth spaking? Do you achooly mane that you are inspired wid a dred that these essenshilly vulger fatheaded raskilly rich nayburs of ours may not call on us? What!” ses he, drowning the interrupting voyce of Mr. John, “Do you _desire_ there acquaytinse?” “Me brotyer” ses Mr. John gintly, “finds his vocatshun rooning from his finger tips to his tung. To him the mere fack of being rich is to be likewise a fool and nave.” “I claim” ses Mr. James thoomping on the table “that a man cannot make a billion onestly. I agree wid me frind Andrew Carnegie, who denies he sed it, that its impossible.” “What of those who inherit?” ses Mrs. Wolley. “Poony-soled, puppy heded eediots. What rite I asks have they to _kape_ the money stolen from the peeple by there fathers?” Mr. Wolley put in a word here edgewise. “It seems to me James” ses he “that you are wilfully departing from the mooted subject. I belave in dyagression—to a limited extint—and whin by gintle degrees it permits us to cum back to the subjeck under discushion.” “Yes” ses Miss Claire, “we must get back to the lons. Its settled. James you will cut them at leest wanse a week.” “Once a week! Lord God of Isreel!” grones Mr. James, “I’ll be a fissicle reck befure the summer wanes.” “Next” ses Miss Claire, “Johnny _you_ must take care of the horse.”