Part 21 (2/2)

”Strike home!

”'There's no more moonlight for poor Uncle J., For he's gone whar de snubbed n.i.g.g.e.rs go.'”

”I was just going to propose singing,” said his mother; ”but before we begin, suppose we do honor to this good moon, that has treated us so well. Let every one give a quotation in her honor. I will begin:

”'That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn.'

Sh.e.l.ley. I am a cloud, be it understood!”

”I should hardly have guessed it,” said Mr. Merryweather. ”My turn? I'll go back to Milton:

”'Now glowed the firmament With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.'”

”Oh, I say!” murmured Gerald; ”that is a peach!”

”Jerry,” said his mother, plaintively, ”have you _no_ adjectives, my poor dest.i.tute child? I can imagine few things less peach-like than that glorious pa.s.sage. But never mind! Jack, it is your turn.”

”'The gray sea and the long black land, And the yellow half-moon large and low--'”

said Jack, half under his breath.

”It isn't yellow, and it isn't half,” said Gerald. ”But never mind, as the Mater says. Margaret, you come next.”

Margaret looked up, her face full of tranquil happiness.

”I was thinking,” she said, ”of some lines from 'Evangeline,' that I have always loved. I say them over to myself every night in this wonderful moon-time:

”'Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.'”

”Peggy, what have you for us?” asked Mrs. Merryweather.

”Oh!” cried poor Peggy, ”you know I never can remember poetry, Mrs.

Merryweather. I shall have to take to 'Mother Goose.' I know I am terribly prosy--well, prosaic, then, Margaret; what's the difference?

But I can't think of anything except:

”'The Man in the Moon Came down too soon,'--

and that doesn't go with all these lovely things you have all been saying.”

”It gives me mine, though!” said Phil. And he sang, merrily:

”'The Man in the Moon was looking down, With winking and with blinking frown, And stars beamed out bright To look on the night; The Man in the Moon was looking!'”

”Phil!” cried Gertrude. ”How can you? Comic opera is an insult to a moon like this.”

”Oh, indeed!” said her brother. ”Sorry I spoke. Next time I'll sing it to some other moon,--one of Jupiter's; or the brick one in Doctor Hale's story. Go on, Toots, since you are so superior. It's your turn.”

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