"Doctor," said I, "have you ever seen a yellow fog before?"
"Yes," he said, "I have seen a white, black, red, and yellow fog," and
went off into a disquisition about optics, mediums, reflections,
refractions, and all sorts of scientific terms.
Well, I don't like hard words; when you crack them, which is plaguy
tough work, you have to pick the kernel out with a cambric needle, and
unless it's soaked in wine, like the heart of a hickory nut is, it
don't taste nice, and don't pay you for the trouble. So to change the
subject, "Doctor," sais I, "how long is this everlasting mullatto
lookin' fog a goin' to last, for it ain't white, and it ain't black,
but kind of betwixt and between."
Sais he, and he stopped and listened a moment, "It will be gone by
twelve o'clock to-night."
"What makes you think so?" said I.
"Do you hear that?" said he.
"Yes," sais I, "I do; it's children a playin' and a chatterin' in
French. Now it's nateral they should talk French, seein' their parents
do. They call it their mother-tongue, for old wives are like old
hosses, they are all tongue, and when their teeth is gone, that unruly
member grows thicker and bigger, for it has a larger bed to stretch
out in,--not that it ever sleeps much, but it has a larger sphere of
action,--do you take? I don't know whether you have had this feeling
of surprise, Doctor, but I have, hearing those little imps talk
French, when, to save my soul, I can't jabber it that way myself.
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