So favorably had the liquor
operated by this time upon the faculties of all, that the elder Brooks
grew garrulous and full of jest at the expense of his son--who now,
completely overcome, had sunk down with his head upon the table in a
profound slumber. The pedler joined, as well as Tongs, in the
merriment--this latter personage, by the way, having now put himself
completely under the control of the ardent spirit, and exhibiting all
the appearance of a happy madness. He howled like the wolf, imitated
sundry animals, broke out into catches of song, which he invariably
failed to finish, and, at length, grappling his brother-in-law, Brooks,
around the neck, with both arms, as he sat beside him, he swore by all
that was strong in _Monongahely_, he should give them a song.
"That's jest my idee, now, Master Tongs. A song is a main fine thing,
now, to fill up the chinks. First a glass, then a puff or two, and then
a song."
Brooks, who, in backwood parlance, was "considerably up a stump"--that
is to say, half drunk--after a few shows of resistance, and the
utterance of some feeble scruples, which were all rapidly set aside by
his companions, proceeded to pour forth the rude melody which follows:--
THE HOW-D'YE-DO BOY.
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