1850
THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK
by Edgar Allan Poe
YOU hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,
fusty, old savage!" said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand uncle
Rumgudgeon- shaking my fist at him in imagination.
Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy did
exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the courage
to say- between what I did and what I had half a mind to do.
The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting
with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his
paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.
Remplis ton verre vide!
Vide ton verre plein!
"My dear uncle," said I, closing the door gently, and approaching
him with the blandest of smiles, "you are always so very kind and
considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in so many- so very
many ways- that- that I feel I have only to suggest this little
point to you once more to make sure of your full acquiescence."
"Hem!" said he, "good boy! go on!"
"I am sure, my dearest uncle [you confounded old rascal!], that
you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with Kate.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10