A Man in the Open

by Roger Pocock

III

This morning, after rigging a life-line to the stable because of this continuing blizzard, I went to the lady's home. She showed me a letter Dale brought, in eytalian, which says the swine proposes to kiss her feet, and wallow in divine song, etc. His name is Salvator, so he's a dago. She, being white, can't have any truck with such, being the same specie as niggers, so that's all right. Seems the puppy piano is for her from her beloved maestro, another swine from the same litter. She's singing now, and it goes through my bones. Her voice is deep as a man's, strong as Fraser Rapids, and I own that puppy piano appeals to my best instinks. As for me, my name's mud, and she treads in it.