Penrod sang the loudest. For every boy, there is an age when he “finds his voice.” Penrod's had not “changed,” but he had found it. Inevitably that thing had come upon his family and the neighbours; and his father, a somewhat dyspeptic man, quoted frequently the expressive words of the “Lady of Shalott,” but there were others whose sufferings were as poignant.
Vacation-time warmed the young of the world to pleasant languor; and a morning came that was like a brightly coloured picture in a child's fairy story. Miss Margaret Schofield, reclining in a hammock upon the front porch, was beautiful in the eyes of a newly made senior, well favoured and in fair raiment, beside her. A guitar rested lightly upon his knee, and he was trying to play—a matter of some difficulty, as the floor of the porch also seemed inclined to be musical. From directly under his feet came a voice of song, shrill, loud, incredibly piercing and incredibly flat, dwelling upon each syllable with incomprehensible reluctance to leave it.
“I have lands and earthly pow-wur.
I'd give all for a now-wur,
Whi-ilst setting at MY-Y-Y dear old mother's knee-ee,
So-o-o rem-mem-bur whilst you're young——”
Miss Schofield stamped heartily upon the musical floor.
“It's Penrod,” she explained. “The lattice at the end of the porch is loose, and he crawls under and comes out all bugs. He's been having a dreadful singing fit lately—running away to picture shows and vaudeville, I suppose.”
Mr. Robert Williams looked upon her yearningly. He touched a thrilling chord on his guitar and leaned nearer. “But you said you have missed me,” he began. “I——”
The voice of Penrod drowned all other sounds.
“So-o-o rem-mem-bur, whi-i-ilst you're young,
That the day-a-ys to you will come,
When you're o-o-old and only in the way,
Do not scoff at them BEE-cause——”
“PENROD!” Miss Schofield stamped again.
“You DID say you'd missed me,” said Mr. Robert Williams, seizing hurriedly upon the silence. “Didn't you say——”