"You do not say anything," said Alice, as Quincy finished reading and remained silent.
He replied, "You have conferred judicial functions upon me and a judge does not give his opinion until the evidence is all in."
"Ah! I see," said Alice. "My knowledge of metrical composition," she continued, "is very limited. What I know of it I learned from an old copy of Fowler's Grammar that I bought at Burnham's on School Street soon after I went to Boston. I have always called what you just read a poem. Is it one?" she asked, looking up with a smile.
"I think it is," replied Quincy, "and," he added inadvertently, "a very pretty one, too."
"Oh! Mr. Judge," laughing outright "you have given aid and comfort to the prisoner before the evidence was all in."
And Quincy was forced to laugh heartily at the acuteness she had shown in forcing his opinion from him prematurely."
"Now, this one," said Alice, "I call a song. I know which one it is by the size and thickness of the paper." And she handed him a foolscap sheet.
Quincy took it and glanced over it a moment or two before he spoke, Alice leaning forward and listening intently for the first sound of his voice. Then Quincy uttered those ever pleasing words, "Sweet, Sweet Home," and delivered, with great expression, the words of the song.
"You read it splendidly," cried Alice, with evident delight. "Would it be presuming on your kindness if I asked you to read the refrain and chorus once more, Mr. Sawyer?"