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Pietro Tobigili, that gay young chestnut vender–he of the radiant smiles–gave forth, in his warm tenor, his own interpretation of “Ach du lieber Augustine,” whenever Bertha, rosy waitress in the little German restaurant, showed her face at the door. For a month it had been a courtship; and the merchant sang often:

“Ahaha, du libra Ogostine,
Ogostine, Ogostine!
Ahaha, du libra Ogostine,
Nees coma ross.”

The acquaintance, begun by the song and Pietro’s wonderful laugh, had grown tender. The chestnut vender had a way with him; he looked like the “Neapolitan Fisher Lad” of the chromos, and you could have fancied him of two centuries ago, putting a rose in his hair; even as it was, he had the ear-rings. But the smile of him it was that won Bertha, when she came to work in the little restaurant. It was a smile that put the world at its ease; it proclaimed the coming of morning over the meadows, and, taking every bystander into an April friendship, ran on suddenly into a laugh that was like silver, and like a strange puppy’s claiming you for the lost master.

So it befell that Bertha was fascinated; that, blushing, she laughed back to him, and was nothing offended when, at his first sight of her, he rippled out at once into “Ahaha, du libra Ogostine.”

Within two weeks he was closing his business (no intricate matter) every evening, to walk home with her, through the September moonlight. Then extraordinary things happened to the English language.

“I ain’d nefer can like no foreigner!” she often joked back to a question of his. “Nefer, nefer! you t’ink I’m takin’ up mit a hant-orkan maan, Mister Toby?”

Whereupon he would carol out the tender taunt, “Ahaha, du libra Ogostine!”

“Yoost a hant-orkan maan!”

“No! No! No oragan! I am a greata–greata merchant. Vote a Republican! Polititshian! To-bigli, Chititzen Republican. Naturalasize! March in a parade!”

Never lived native American prouder of his citizenship than this adopted one. Had he not voted at the election? Was he not a member of the great Republican party? He had eagerly joined it, for the reason that he had been a Republican in Italy, and he had drawn with him to the polls his second cousin, Leo Vesschi, and the five other Italians with whom he lived. For this, he had been rewarded by Pixley, his precinct committee-man, who allowed him to carry pink torches in three night processions.

“You keeb oud politigs,” said Bertha, earnestly, one evening. “My uncle, Louie Gratz, he iss got a neighbour-lady; her man gone in politigs. Aftervorts he git it! He iss in der bennidenshierry two years. You know why?”

“Democrat!” shouted the chestnut vender triumphantly.

“No, sir! Yoost politigs,” replied the unpartisan Bertha. “You keeb oud politigs.”

“Ahaha, du libra Ogostine,
Ogostine, Ogostine!
Ahaha, du libra Ogostine,
Nees coma ross.”

The song was always a teasing of her and carried all his friendly laughter at her, because of her German ways; but it became softly exultant whenever she betrayed her interest in him.

“Libra Ogostine, she afraid I go penitensh?” he inquired.

“Me!” she jeered with uneasy laughter. “I ain’d care! but you–you don’ look oud, you git in dod voikhouse!”

He turned upon her, suddenly, a face like a mother’s, and touched her hand with a light caress.

“I stay in a workhouse sevena-hunder’ year,” he said gently, “you come seeta by window some-a-time.”

At this Bertha turned away, was silent for a space, leaning on the gate-post in front of her uncle’s house, whither they were now come. Finally she answered brokenly: “I ain’d sit by no vinder for yoost a jessnut maan.” This was her way of stimulating his ambition.

“Ahaha!” he cried. “You don’ know? I’m goin’ buy beeg stan’! Candy! Peanut! Banan’! Make some-a-time four dollar a day! ‘Tis a greata countra! Bimaby git a store! Ride a buggy! Smoke a cigar! You play piano! Vote a Republican!”