SOC. CHAT. Such a complete _rest_, you know--so perfectly peaceful! Not a soul to talk to. I _love_ it ... but, to really enjoy a tomato, you must see it dressed ... in the _sweetest_ little sailor suit! MISS F. B. My horse was a speck on the pampas' verge, for I dropped the rein in my haste to stoop; Then I pressed my ear to the baking soil--and caught--ah, horror--the Indian whoop! SOC. CHAT. Some say it _isn't_ infectious, but one can't be too careful, and, with children in the house, &c., &c. MISS F. B. I rose to my feet with quivering knees, and my face went white as a fresh-washed towel; I had heard a war-cry I knew too well--'twas the murderous bellow of Blue-nosed Owl! SOC. CHAT. Nice fellow--I'm very fond of him--so fresh--capital company--met him when I was over there, &c. MISS F. B. "What! leave you to face those fiends alone!" she cried, and slid from her horse's back; "Let me die with you--for I love you, Clem!" Then she gave her steed a resounding smack, And he bounded off; "Now Heaven be praised that my school six-shooter I brought!" said she. "Four barrels I'll keep for the front-rank foes--and the next for you--and the last for me!" SOC. CHAT. Is it a _comic_ piece she's doing, do you know? Don't think so, I can see somebody smiling. Sounds rather like Shakespeare, or Dickens, or one of those fellahs.... Didn't catch what you said. No. Quite impossible to hear one's self speak, _isn't_ it? MISS F. B. And ever louder the demons yelled for their pale-faced prey--but I scorned death's pangs, For I deemed it a doom that was half delight to die by the hand of Lobelia Bangs! Then she whispered low in her dulcet tones, like the crooning coo of a cushat dove! (_At the top of her voice._) "Forgive me, Clem, but I could not bear any squaw to torture my own true love!" And she raised the revolver--"crack-crack-crack!" [_To the infinite chagrin of the_ UNSOPHISTICATED GUEST, _who is intensely anxious to hear how Miss Bangs and her lover escaped from so unpleasant a dilemma--the remaining cracks of her revolver, together with the two next stanzas, are drowned in afresh torrent of small-talk--after which he hears_ MISS F. B. _conclude with repressed emotion_: But the ochre on Blue-nosed Owl was blurred, as his braves concluded their brief harangues; And he dropped a tear on the early bier of our Prairie Belle, Lobelia Bangs! [_Which of course leaves him in a state of hopeless mystification._ SOC. CHAT. Is that the _end_? Charming! Now we shall be able to _talk_ again! &c., &c. Bank Holiday.