I am _shem_ of you.

I ham ze servan' of ze _publique_.

Zese _citoyens_ goin' to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline' two hondred fifty dolla'"-- "_He quoi_!" cried a listener, "_Cinq cent piastres, oui_!" "_Oui_!" said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him some lit' _musique_; ta-ra ta!" He hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, added: "Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky." "But, gentlemen," said little White, around whom a circle had gathered, "the old man is very sick." "My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make him to be sick.

W'en we have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tell a lie?
My faith! 'sfools!" "But you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little White.
"_Oui_" cried Bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ Jean-ah Poquelin tomo'w!" "Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for drinks, the crowd again began to move.
"_Cent piastres pour l'hopital de charite_!" "Hurrah!" "One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!" "Hurrah!" "Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again.
They were off at a right angle.
Nodding, Mrs.White looked at the mantle-clock.
"Well, if it isn't away after midnight." The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot.

She raised a sash and listened.