So she stood up, tremblin’ a little. Long-hair sit down to the pyano, and this was it!
| “Oh, oh, oh, sweet sing bird, Oh, oh, sweet sing bird, ety plump plump––” plump plump Plump |
It was a shame. But Macie done her best. When she ended up, they hollered fer more, and Long-hair like to break hisself in two, bowin’.
She just stood there–like she’d been run to ground. The Perfessor waved his hand. “The Jew’s song from Fowst,” he calls out.
I couldn’t stand it no longer. I lent towards her. “The Mohawk Vale,” I says; “please sing The Mohawk Vale.”
The crowd giggled. The Perfessor, he started to laugh, too–but ketched my eye, and coughed.
Macie turned towards him. “A’ ole friend; I’d like to,” she says. And sit down to play fer herself.
| “Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin’ way to the sea––” |
She helt herself straight, and tried t’ stick it out. But she couldn’t. I seen her shake a little, her voice got husky,–and she bent ’way over, her face in her hands.
“Why, Miss Sewell!” they exclaims, “why, what’s the matter?”