a standing on the porch of Mount Vernon asking them who they bought
the ducks of and how much they cost, than to have one of those big
paintings in the white house showing George and Lafayette looking as
though they had conquered the world. If the phonograph had been invented
then, and we could listen to the conversation of those men, just as they
said things, it would be great. Imagine George saying to Lafayette, so
you cotild hear it now: "Lafe, that last shot at that canvasback you
made was the longest shot ever made on the Potomac. It was a Jim dandy,
you old frog eater," and imagine Lafayette replying: "You bet your life,
George, I nailed that buck canvasback with a charge of number six shot,
and he never knew what struck him." But they didn't have any phonographs
in those days and so you have got to imagine things.

How would Washington's farewell address sound now in a phonograph,
or some of George's choice swear words at a slave that had ridden a
sore-backed mule down to Alexandria after a jug of rum. I would like to
run a phonograph show with nothing in the machine but ancient talk from
George Washington, but we can have no such luck unless George is born
again.

Old man, if you ever get a furlough from business, you go down to Mount
Vernon and revel in memories of the father of his country. If you go,
hunt up a negro with a hair lip, that is a servant there, and who used
to be Washington's body servant, unless he is a liar, and tell him I
sent you and he won't do a thing to you, for a dollar or so. I told that
negro that dad was a great general, a second Washington, and he wore
all the skin off his bald head taking off his hat to dad every time dad
looked at him, and he bowed until his back ached, but when we were going
away, and dad asked me what ailed the old monkey to act that way, the
old negro thought these new Washingtons were a pretty tough lot.

All the time at Mount Vernon I couldn't get up meanness enough to
play any trick on dad, but I picked up a sort of a horse chestnut or
something, with prickers on it as sharp as needles, and as we were
getting on the trolley I slipped it down the back of dad's pants, near
where his suspenders button on, and by the time we sat down in the car
the horse chestnut had worked down where dad is the largest, and when he
leaned back against the seat he turned pale and wiggled around and asked
me if he looked bad.

[Illustration: Slipped it down the back of dad's pan