Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1911-07-15
Those Sumner Morning Noises

rected at the 1ceman and his Mate, I'd ge,
at least 80 per cent the worst of it, They
wouldn't understand the nature or cause
of my peeve. They were wide awake
weren't they? They were out there work
in, weren't they? And tendin t theil
own business? An they weren't buttin
into nobody's affairs. was they? Wen
then? What was bawlin' about? Aw
go chase yerself!
That. knew quite we'll, was what Il
peeve, I should stick my head through
the window screen and even ever sc
politely request them to narrate that tx
O'Suini or let it run for Hogan and thu
end book.
So contented myself-to use a phras,
that doesn't describe it-by glazing a
them. unseen, out Of the window, and
holding the watch on 'ern, and waiting To-
'ein to go away from there. They weren'
delivering ice. be good enough to remem
Der. They were just sitting there. one OF
the seat OF the wagon and the other OF
the curb, a-talkin'. Between phrases they
would gaze admiringly at their forearms
from which the sleeves OF their shirts
were rolled back, and mentally calculate
probably, upon how easy it would be fol
put 1t all over the Big Dinge.
After consuming two self-made olga
rettes apiece, and yawning in a very Hi
ho-hummish way, and starting the con-
versation about the dolls they snagged
two or three times all over again, they
rumbled the wagon down the street, and
then I pulled the pillow out Of the other
ear and held my head under the cold
water spigot for little while and took a
sulp or two. out of the pitcher of ice
water that had become tepid. and closed
all of the venetian blinds, and pumped
back into the shucks. resolved, this time,
to remain imbedded in that same alfalfa
until Night, Sable Goddess, took her Ebon
Throne. even If failed utterly to sup
port my family in the interim.
nebulous region Of Money. where all you
have to do is to stoop and pick 1t UP and
tuck it into the left-side kick of your
pantaloons-when the garbage man, driv-
ing his fiery, untamed steed, pulled
through the alley next to our domicile.
X =
Dismounting from the seat OF his
wagon, the garbage man
But wait a minute. A question: Did
you ever watch small boy kicking a
tin can for seven or eight miles along
the street. zigzagging from one side of
the thoroughfare to the other, but never
letting go-afways kicking the everlast-
ing thunder out Of the can, and wearing
an expression of imbecile pleasure over
the noise?
OF course, you have, (Odds-tooth. but
maybe you've actually done IT'D Well.
that 1t what. in our half-stunned, sub
conscious, partly awakened condition. we
verify believed the garbage man was
doing with the backyard cans that he
juggled. Maybe he wasn't In fact,
probably he wasn't. But II seemed so.
And one Of his shoes hurt him, and he
sat down in the alley and took 1t off and
fixed it. singing merrily the while. And
then he went away. leaving changing
echoes.
And then the morning sparrows got
on the job with their silly tweet-tweet.
And So we got up and turned on the cold
water and sozzled around in the tub
and, to get hunk, awakened the rest of
the folks at an unseemly hour and made
'em get breakfast for us-and this Is all
of the work we have done or can do
today, just for that.
CLARENCE L. CULLEN