"
"Heyday!" shouted the hostess, advancing towards him in a threatening
attitude; "and who is it that calls me filthy? Master Squirt!
Master Popgun--"
"Peace!" said Dunwoodie, in a voice that was exerted but a little more
than common, but which was succeeded by the stillness of death. "Woman,
leave the room. Dr. Sitgreaves, I call you to your seat, to wait the
order of the revels."
"Proceed, proceed," said the surgeon, drawing himself up in an attitude
of dignified composure. "I trust, Major Dunwoodie, I am not unacquainted
with the rules of decorum, nor ignorant of the by-laws of
good-fellowship." Betty made a hasty but somewhat devious retreat to her
own dominions, being unaccustomed to dispute the orders of the
commanding officer.
"Major Dunwoodie will honor us with a sentimental song," said Lawton,
bowing to his leader, with the collected manner he so well knew how
to assume.
The major hesitated a moment, and then sang, with fine execution, the
following words:--
Some love the heats of southern suns,
Where's life's warm current maddening runs,
In one quick circling stream;
But dearer far's the mellow light
Which trembling shines, reflected bright
In Luna's milder beam.
Some love the tulip's gaudier dyes,
Where deepening blue with yellow vies,
And gorgeous beauty glows;
But happier he, whose bridal wreath,
By love entwined, is found to breathe
The sweetness of the rose.
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