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Updated: May 17, 2025
O' Mondays, lending each other flirts and fillips on the nose. O' Tuesdays, clapperclawing one another. O' Wednesdays, sniting and fly-flapping. O' Thursdays, worming and pumping. O' Fridays, tickling. O' Saturdays, jerking and firking one another.
Sometimes—especially Mondays, with everyone telling everyone else what she had done over the week end, and for some reason or other Fridays, the talk was “enough to get you crazy,” Margaret used to say. “Sure it makes my head swim.” Nor was the laughter the giggling kind, indulged in when the forelady was not looking.
Thanks to the "High Life" reporters, every newspaper reader is aware that twice a week Mondays and Thursdays Madame Lia d'Argeles holds a reception at her charming mansion in the Rue de Berry. Her guests find plenty of amusement there. They seldom dance; but card-playing begins at midnight, and a dainty supper is served before the departure of the guests.
It was the finest of all possible Whit Mondays, and down the village street stood a row of nearly a dozen booths, a shooting gallery, and on the grass by the forge were three yellow and chocolate waggons and some picturesque strangers of both sexes putting up a cocoanut shy. The gentlemen wore blue jerseys, the ladies white aprons and quite fashionable hats with heavy plumes.
"Whose distracted about what?" I asked. But Hannah would say no more, and left me a pray to doubt and fear. Alas, Hannah was right. There was something wrong in the house. Coming home as I had done, full of the joy of no rising bell or French grammar, or meat pie on Mondays from Sunday's roast, I had noticed nothing.
The cold woodshed became a chantry on the New England coast, the alley the wintry sea soon to embrace our ship, the saw-horses which stood between a coal-bin on one side and unused stalls filled with rubbish and kindling on the other the ways; the yard behind the lattice fence became a backwater, the flapping clothes the sails of ships that took refuge there on Mondays and Tuesdays.
Thus she expatiated, half the way home, before either of her companions found an opportunity of saying a word. "I am sorry to differ from you, aunt," said Helen. "I thought the sermon a very interesting one. He read beautifully." "For my part," said Bascombe, who was now a regular visitor from Saturdays to Mondays, "I used to think the fellow a muff, but, by Jove! I've changed my mind.
The number of his supporting admirers present at his try-out decides it in advance. But how these outlying Friday nights put to a certain shame the Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and matinees of the Broadway stage you should know . . .
Many of them have seen the inside of a jail, some of them will again possibly; but there's a leaven of good stuff in them. Saints have been reared from such poor material before now." "When do you meet?" I asked. "Mondays and Thursdays." "To-night. I'll look in to-night." "But " "I may find the solution to the theft at your club," I said. The suggestion seemed to annoy him.
My clients had to conform to the new office hours, 10 to 3, with Saturdays struck off the office calendar, and, in the dog days, Mondays too. Yet I was within call, and business ran smoothly. The country looked brighter than it used to do. I learned to enjoy the glorious sunrise that New Yorkers never see.
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