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'hote_ 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."

Before Jennie married and moved West I remember she had a very pretty
mezzo-concert