A’ to fill our woven willows,”——
as I reached those lines, my voice trembled so’s to shake the tears out of my eyes, and Jim Jerdan took it up himself and sung it through for me to words of his own invention. He was always a kindly fellow, and he knew a little how the land lay between me and Dan.
“When I was down in the Georges,” said Jim Jerdan——
“You? When was you down there?” asked father.
“Well,——once I was. There’s worse places.”
“Can’t tell me nothing about the Georges,” said father. “’Ta’n’t the rivers of Damascus exactly, but ’ta’n’t the Marlstrom neither.”
“Ever ben there, Cap’n?”
“A few. Spent more nights under cover roundabouts than Georgie’ll have white hairs in her head,——for all she’s washing the color out of her eyes now.”
You see, father knew I set by my hair,——for in those days I rolled it thick as a cable, almost as long, black as that cat’s back,——and he thought he’d touch me up a little.
“Wash the red from her cheek and the light from her look, and she’ll still have the queen’s own tread,” said Jim.