o and leave it for dead in about
thirty-two bars.

At the finish of the sonata we all applauded Cleopatra 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 Cleopatra 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 Cleopatra 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 Cleopatra so as to take her mind off
the piano.

Then the Bingledingle brothers, known as Oscar and Victor, opened
fire on us with a couple of mandolins.

Oscar and Victor play entirely by hand. They don't know one note
from another, and they can prove it when they begin to play.

Their mother believes them to be prodigies of genius. She is alone
in her belief.

After Oscar and Victor had chased one of Sousa's marches all over
the parlor and finally left it unconscious under the sofa, they
bowed and ceased firing, and then they went out in the dining-room
and filled their storage batteries with ice cream and cake.

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 mixed 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'hote restaurant again.

Then Cornucopia Coogan arose and gave us a few select recitations.
She weig