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Updated: June 25, 2025
Hit'd become her a heap better'n it becomes you," Peters said, laughing. "Yas, I reckon it would," said 'Pollo; "but de fact is she gi' me dis hankcher an' of co'se I accepted it." "But why ain't you tellin' us what you give her?" insisted Peters.
"Well," she said, "isn't you going to begin?" "Yes," he replied; "but what do you want the bow and arrow for?" "To get my enemies shotted." "Your enemies? What folly this is, Di. You have not got any enemies." "Haven't I? I know better. I won't talk to you about it, 'Pollo." "All right," replied Apollo; "you must tell me, or I won't help you."
"Mother," exclaimed the daughter, "'Pollo is only a fool, not worth talking about; where does he live, Jacques?" Jasmin relished the chaff, and explained that he only lived in the old mythology, and had no part in human affairs. And thus was Apollo, the ancient god of poetry and music, sent about his business.
The Madrid pollo is not the most favourable specimen of a Spaniard; the word literally means a "chicken," but applied to a young man it is scarcely a complimentary expression, and has its counterpart with us in the slang terms which from time to time indicate the idle exquisite who thinks as much of his dress and his style as any woman does or more.
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