Which Concerns Itself with Small Things in General, and a Pebble in Particular

"Romantic, mam!" snorted the Captain, "romantic,--I say bosh, mam! I
say--"

"And then--the moon, Jack!"

"Moon? And what of it, mam,--I say--"

"Roses always smell sweeter by moonlight, Jack, and are far more
inclined to--go to the head--"

"Roses!" snorted the Captain, louder than before, "you must be
thinking of rum, mam, rum--"

"Then, Jack, to the perfume of roses, add the trill of a
nightingale--"

"And of all rums, mam, give me real old Jamaica--"

"And to the trill of a nightingale, add again the murmur of an
unseen brook, Jack--"

"Eh, mam, eh? Nightingales, brooks? I say--oh, Gad, mam!" and the
Captain relapsed into tobacco-puffing indignation.

"What more could youth and beauty ask? Ah, Jack, Jack!" sighed the
Duchess, "had you paid more attention to brooks and nightingales,
and stared at the moon in your youth, you might have been a green
young grandfather to-night, instead of a hoary old bachelor in a
shabby coat--sucking consolation from a clay pipe!"

"Consolation, mam! For what--I say, I demand to know for what?"

"Loneliness, Jack!"

"Eh, Duchess,--what, mam? Haven't I got my dear Clo, and the Bo'sun,
eh, mam--eh?"

"The Bo'sun, yes,--he smokes a pipe, but Cleone can't, so she looks
at the moon instead,--don't you dear?"