Julie? Julie? Do you like him?I don't know.Did you like it when he talked to you today?When he put you on the carousel that way?Did you like that?D'rother not say.You're a queer one, Julie Jordan.You are quieter and deeper than a well.And you never tell me nothing.There's nothing that I care to choose to tell.Oh, you've been acting most peculiar.Every morning you're awake ahead of me.Always sitting by the window.I like to watch the river meet the sea.When we work in the mill, we've been at the loo.You're gay, absent-minded at the roof.And half the time your shuttle gets twisted in the threadstill you can't tell the wharf from the woo.Taint's soul.You're a queer one, Julie Jordan.You won't ever tell a body what you think.You're as tight-lipped as an oyster.And as silent as an old Sahara spink.Spinks.Huh?Spinks.Uh-uh.Spink.You spell it with an X.That's only when there's more than one.Oh.Julie, I've been busting to tell you something lately.You have?The reason I didn't care to tell you beforewas because you didn't have a fella of your own.But now you've got one, I can tell you about mine.I'm glad you've got a fella, Carrie.What's his name?His name is Mr. Snow.And an upstanding man is he.He comes home.He comes home every night in his round-bottom boatwith a net full of herring from the sea.An almost perfect bow,as refined as a girl could wish.But he spends so much time in his round-bottom boatthat he can't seem to lose the smell of fish.The first time he kissed me,the whiff,off his clothes,knocked me flat on the floor of the room.But now that I love him,my heart's in my nose.And fish is my favorite perfume.Last night he spoke quite low.And a fair-spoken man is he.And he said,Miss Pipperidge, I'd like it fineif I could be with, with a wife.And indeed, Miss Pipperidge, if you'll be mine,I'll be yours for the rest of my life.Next moment we were promised,and now my mind's in a maze.For all it can do is look forward tothat wonderful day of days.When I'm married, Mr. Snow,the flowers'll be buzzing with the harp of bees.The birds'll make a racket in the churchyard trees.When I'm married,Mr. Snow,then it's off to home we'll go.And both of us'll look a little green behinda drive into a cottage by the ocean sidewhere the salty breezes blow.He'll carry me across the thresholdand I'll be as meek as a lark.Then he'll set me on my feetand I'll sing kind of sweet.Well, Mr. Snow, here I am.Then I'll kiss him so he'll knowthat everything'll be as right as right can be,a-living in a cottage by the sea with me,for I love that Mr. Snow.That young seafaring, bold and daring,big bee with skirt, vulgar bearing,darling Mr. Snow.