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Instead of a yawning sepulchre, with Romeo and Juliet dying in the middle foreground, and that luckless young Paris stretched out on the left, spitted like a spring-chicken with Montague's rapier, and Friar Laurence, with a dark lantern, groping about under the melancholy yews in place of all this costly piled-up woe, I would have liked a pretty, mediaeval chapel scene, with illuminated stained-glass windows, and trim acolytes holding lighted candles, and the great green curtain slowly descending to the first few bars of the Wedding March of Mendelssohn.
"Yes, and you've already got assault and battery against us, and smothering-with-a-pillow, to say nothing of burglary, breaking and entering, and banjo-playing after 10 P. M. We won't any of us live long enough to serve out our sentences, not even if we get old enough to make Methuselah look like a spring-chicken."
"You may get up to spring-chicken country soon, now," said Bader. "I'm thinking this is near the end; it's the last assault that Lee will ever deliver." "Faith, I dunno," said the corporal; "that's what we've been saying sinst last fall, but the shtay of them Johnnies bates Banagher and the prophets. Hoo ow! by the powers! did you hear them yell? Fwat?
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