Part 6 (2/2)

His greeting: ”WOW! HAND OUT A HOOTCH! DURN MY GIZZARD IF I WARN'T COTCHED IN A HUNKER CRICK BLIZZARD!”

The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind Hollers: ”Windy, ol' c.o.c.k! can YOU call t' y'r mind A chump 'round this camp----Ma'am, wot was th' same Double-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?”---- But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, ”MY SON!”

Lo! ”Windy” be-whiskered was ”DAs.h.i.+NG BEAU-DUNNE!”

MY SONG

I could not sing unless my song Had in its symphony one broken string; I could not say the thoughts that in me rise Unless my heart had been a broken thing.

Why is it that the voice of Song so yields Mute music till the heart hath bled?

Why should we find most fair and far-off fields By th.o.r.n.y by-paths led?

But if this little weakling song of mine Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul, Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl: For I have in the darkness found some light,-- Some suns.h.i.+ne seen in shadowed evening hours, And I have found throughout the lonely night Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers.

And I were ingrate not to send it on, Such echo of what music in me lies, For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn The brightening glow that comes with morning skies.

So, go you, little broken Song, And carry to some heart in bitter pain Only my lute's light laughter. Make thou strong The weak of heart and bid them smile again.

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