The electric-lamps flared and sizzled. The band played tunes from comic operas. There were many people present, seated at similar tables, under similar trees, eating, drinking, smoking, chatting, listening to the music. Their countenances were mostly of the Semitic type. Every now and then a new party entered, from the café adjoining: an old gentleman and lady, a middle-aged gentleman and lady, and a troop of young folks of both sexes: three generations. Your Jew loves to take his pleasure with his family to share it. His boon companions are, as a rule, his father and mother, his wife and children. The waiters dashed like meteors hither and thither. One of them stopped before the table of our friends; and Mr. Koch, having determined the sentiment of the meeting, ordered “beers all around.” “Vail,” observed Mr. Blum, “to drink dot beer, and hear dot music, and breathe dot fresh air, dot's what I call solid comfort--hey?” “Yes; and to see the people,” added Mr. Koch. “I don't know as there's any thing that I enjoy better than I do to sit around here of a summer night, and watch the people--see them arrive in squads, and then notice their ways of enjoying themselves after they've got settled. It's quite a study; and every now and then you catch a glimpse into a regular romance. Now, Mr. Bacharach, you just take in that table over there. Can't you imagine how that young fellow's heart is thumping, as he whispers to her in that energetic manner? And see how she blushes, and fidgets with her fan, and pretends not to like it. And the old folks, her father and mother, of course--they sit placidly, with their backs turned, and have no attention for any thing but the beer and the music. I got a great mind to go up and nudge them. I have, as I'm alive.” “Don't you do nothing of the kind!” cried Mrs. Koch, indignantly. “The idea! How you like it if some busy-body come up, and nudge my papa, when you was making loaf to me?” “Well, now, what I admire about that couple,” pursued Mr. Koch, “is their clever acting. They're trying hard not to give themselves away, and not to let people see how sweet they feel. Unless a fellow watched them mighty close, and had been there himself, he might really be deceived by them, and think they were talking about nothing more interesting than the weather. But you and me, Mr. Bacharach, we're shrewd, and we know better. She's a daisy, and no mistake, ain't she? And the young man--he looks like a respectable sort of a chap, too. Well, I guess I _won't_ interfere. I guess I'll do as you say, Sarah. It may be a desirable match. What's your advice, mother-inlaw?” Mrs. Blum, quivering like a mass of jelly with suppressed mirth, responded, “Ach, Gott! Go 'vay! You make me die!” Mr. Blum, his face wreathed in smiles, exclaimed, “Washington, you got more wit about you than any man I know. It's simply wonderful.”