you know, a good deal of tenor and not much bass,
and plenty of these "minor chords." (Yes, I know, some people call them
"barber-shop chords," but I think "minor" is a nicer name.)

The band played "Hiawatha" eighteen times. One old fellow got on at
Huntsville, and he says, to Joe Bangs (that's the leader), "Shay," he
says, "play 'Turkey in er Straw,' won't you? Aw, go on. Play it. Thass
goof feller. Go on."

Joe, he never heard of the tune. Don't you know it? Goes like this: ...
No, that ain't it. That's "Gray Eagle." Funny, I can't think how that
tune starts. Well, no matter. They played an arrangement that had "Old
Zip Coon" in it.

"Naw," he says, "tha' ain' it 't all. Go on. Play it. Play 'Turkey in
er Straw.' Ah, ye don't know it. Thass reason. Betch don' know it. Don'
know 'Turkey in er Straw!' Ho! Caw seff ml-m' sishn. Ho! You--you--you
ain' no m'sishn. You--you you're zis bluff." Only about half-past eight,
too. Think of that! So early in the morning. Ah me! That's one of the
sad features of such an occasion.

If there is anything more magnificent than a firemen's parade, I don't
know what it is. The varnished woodwork on the apparatus looks as if it
had just come out of the shop and every bit of bright work glitters fit
to strike you blind. You take, now, a nice hose-reel painted white and
striped into panels with a fine red line, every other panel fruits and
flowers, and every other panel a piece of looking-glass shaped like a
cut of pie and; I tell you, it looks gay. That's what it does. It looks
gay. Some of the hook-and-ladder trucks are just one mass of
golden-rod and hydrangeas, and some of them are all fixed with this
red-white-and-blue paper rope, sort of chenille effect, or more like a
feather boa. Everybody has on white cotton gloves, and those entitled to
carry speaking trumpets have bouquets in the bells of them, salvias, and
golden-rod, and nasturtiums, and marigolds, and all such.

The Wapatomicas always have a dog up on top of their wagon. First off,
you would think it didn't help out much, it is such a forlorn looking
little fice; but this dog, I want you to know, waked up the folks late
one night, 'way 'long about ten or eleven o'clock, barking at a fire.
Saved the town, as you might say. And after that, the fire-boys took him
for a mascot. I guess he didn't belong to anybody before. And another
wagon has a chair on it, and in that chair the cutest little girl you
almost eyer saw, hair a