“Yes,” says Bishop, “but the music and singin’ in the different op’ras is no more alike than lumbago and hives. They couldn’t be nothin’ differenter, for instance, than Faust and Madame Buttermilk .”
“Unlest it was Scotch and chocolate soda,” I says.
“They’s good op’ras and bad op’ras,” says Bishop.
“Which is the good ones?” I ast him.
“Oh,” he says, “ Carmen and La Bohemian Girl and Ill Toreador .”
“ Carmen ’s a bear cat,” I says. “If they was all as good as Carmen , I’d go every night. But lots o’ them is flivvers. They say they couldn’t nothin’ be worse than this Armour’s Dee Tree Ree .”
“It is pretty bad,” says Bishop. “I seen it a year ago.”
Well, I’d just been readin’ in the paper where it was bran’-new and hadn’t never been gave prev’ous to this season. So I thought I’d have a little sport with Mr. Smartenstein.
“What’s it about?” I says.
He stalled a w’ile.
“It ain’t about much of anything,” he says.
“It must be about somethin’,” says I.
“They got it all balled up the night I seen it,” says Bishop. “The actors forgot their lines and a man couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Did they sing in English?” I ast him.
“No; Latin,” says Bishop.
“Can you understand Latin?” I says.