April 17th.
And another was silly little Mr. B––r, my little golden calf. What a – don’t call names! I owe him a grudge for “cold hands,” and the other day, when I heard of his being wounded at Shiloh, I could not help laughing a little at Tom B––r’s being hurt. What was the use of throwing a nice, big cannon ball, that might have knocked a man down, away on that poor little fellow, when a pea from a popgun would have made the same impression? Not but what he is brave, but little Mr. B––r is so soft.
Then there was that rattle-brain Mr. T––t who, commencing one subject, never ceased speaking until he had touched on all. One evening he came in talking, and never paused even for a reply until he bowed himself out, talking still, when Mr. Bradford, who had been forced to silence as well as the rest, threw himself back with a sigh of relief and exclaimed, “This man talks like a woman!” I thought it the best description of Mr. T––t’s conversation I had ever heard. It was all on the surface, no pretensions to anything except to put the greatest possible number of words of no meaning in one sentence, while speaking of the most trivial thing. Night or day, Mr. T––t never passed home without crying out to me, “Ces jolis yeux bleus!” and if the parlor were brightly lighted so that all from the street might see us, and be invisible to us themselves, I always nodded my head to the outer darkness and laughed, no matter who was present, though it sometimes created remark. You see, I knew the joke. Coming from a party escorted by Mr. B––r, Miriam by Mr. T––t,1 we had to wait a long time before Rose opened the door, which interval I employed in dancing up and down the gallery – followed by my cavalier – singing, –
“Mes jolis yeux bleus,
Bleus comme les cieux,
Mes jolis yeux bleus
Ont ravi son âme,” etc.;2
which naÏve remark Mr. B––r, not speaking French, lost entirely, and Mr. T––t endorsed it with his approbation and belief in it, and ever afterwards called me “Ces jolis yeux bleus.”