upon a strong flame, increasing its force, instead of checking it.
"Don't dear me, Sir Hurricane. I am not one of your dears—your dears are all in Dutchtown—more shame for you, an old man like you."
"Old man!" cried Sir Hurricane, losing his placidity a little.
"Yes, old man; look at your hair—as grey as a goose's."
"Why, as for my hair, that proves nothing, Mrs. Jellybag, for though there may be snow on the mountains, there is still heat in the vallies. What d'ye think of my metaphor?"
"I am no more a metafore than yourself, Sir Hurricane; but I'll tell you what, you are a cock-and-hen admiral, a dog-in-the-manger barrownight, who was jealous of my poor tom cat, because ——, I won't say what. Yes, Sir Hurricane, all hours of the day you are leering at every young woman that passes, out of our windows—and an old man too; you ought to
