Claribel grabbed "The Wreck of the Hesperus" between her pearly teeth and shook it to death. Then she got a half-Nelson on Poe's "Raven" and put it out of business. [Illustration] Next she tried an imitation of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. If Juliet talked like that dame did no wonder she took poison. Then Claribel let down her back hair and started in to give us a mad scene--and it was. Everybody in the room got mad. When peace was finally restored Mrs. Frothingham informed us that the rest of the "paid" talent had disappointed her and she'd have to depend on the volunteers. Then she whispered to Miss Gladiola Hungerschnitz, whereupon that young lady giggled her way over to the piano and began to knock its teeth out. The way Gladiola went after one of Beethoven's sonatas and slapped its ears was pitiful. Gladiola learned to injure a piano at a conservatory of music. She can take a Hungarian rhapsody and turn it into a goulash in about 32 bars. At the finish of the sonata we all applauded Gladiola just as loudly as we could, in the hope that she would faint with surprise and stop playing, but no such luck. She tied a couple of chords together and swung that piano like a pair of Indian clubs. First she did "My Old Kentucky Home," with variations, until everybody who had a home began to weep for fear it might get to be like her Kentucky home. The variations were where she made a mistake and struck the right note. Then Gladiola moved up to the squeaky end of the piano and gave an imitation of a Swiss music box. It sounded to me like a Swiss cheese. Presently Gladiola ran out of raw material and subsided, while we all applauded her with our fingers crossed, and two very thoughtful ladies began to talk fast to Gladiola so as to take her mind off the piano. This excitement was followed by another catastrophe named Minnehaha Jones, who picked up a couple of soprano songs and screeched them at us. Minnehaha is one of those fearless singers who vocalize without a safety-valve. She always keeps her eyes closed so she can't tell just when her audience gets up and leaves the room. The next treat was a duet on the flute and trombone between Clarence Smith and Lancelot Diffenberger, with a violin obligate on the side by Hector Tompkins. Never before have I seen music so roughly handled. It looked like a walk-over for Clarence, but in the fifth round he blew a couple of green notes and Lancelot got the decision. Then, for a consolation prize, Hector was led out in the middle of the room, where he assassinated Mascagni's _Cavalleria Rusticana_ so thoroughly that it will never be able to enter a fifty-cent _table d'hôte_ restaurant again. Almost before the audience had time to recover Peaches' sister, Jennie, was coaxed to sing Tosti's "Good Bye!" I'm very fond of sister Jennie, but I'm afraid if Mr. Tosti ever heard her sing his "Good Bye" he would say, "the same to you, and here's your hat."