We have been as
little annoyed by our neighbors as we could have been by anybody that
might have occupied the rooms.
It is true that at times the singing of a church tune in there when we
were writing a worldly editorial has caused us to get tangled, but the
piety that we have smuggled into our readers through the church music will
more than atone for the wrath we have felt at the discordant music, and we
have hopes the good brothers will not be averse to saying a good
word for us when they feel like it.
When we lent the young Christians our sanctum as a reception room for the
ladies when they gave the winter picnic to the dry goods clerks, we _did_
feel a little hurt at finding so many different kinds of hair pins on the
carpet the next morning, and the different colors of long hair on our
plush chairs and raw silk ottoman would have been a dead give away on any
other occasion, but for this, even, we have forgiven the young Christians,
though if we ever do so again, they have got to agree to comb the lounge
and the chairs before we shall ever occupy the rooms again.
There is nothing that is so hard to explain as a long hair of another
color, or hair pins and blue bows and pieces of switch. They are gone and
we miss them. No more shall we hear the young Christian slip on the golden
stairs and roll down with his boot heel pointing heavenward, while the
wail of a soul in anguish comes over the banisters, and the brother puts
his hand on his pistol pocket and goes out the front door muttering a
silent prayer, with blood in his eyes.
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