“It ain’t. And I won’t have him ’round.”
Then, she got turrible polite. “I’m sorry, Mister Lloyd,” she says, “but I’m a-goin’ t’ take my lessons.”
Wal, the long and short of it is, she did–right up t’ the very day of the social.
“All right,” I says to myself; “but just wait till this shindig is over.” And when Mace and her paw started fer town that evenin’, I saddled up my bronc and follered ’em.
Simpson was kinda in charge of that social. He got up and made a’ openin’ speech, sayin’ they was lots of ice-cream and cake fer sale, and he hoped we’d all shell out good. Then, he begun t’ read off the program.
“We have with us t’night,” he says, “one of the finest and best trained voices in this hull United States–a voice that I wouldn’t be surprised if it ’d be celebrated some day.”
I looked over at Mace. She was gittin’ pink. Did he mean her?
“And,” Simpson goes on, “the young lady that owns it is a-goin’ t’ give us the first number.” And he bowed–Shore enough!
Wal, she sung. It was somethin’ about poppies, and it was awful sad, and had love in it. I liked it pretty nigh as good as The Mohawk Vale. But the ole man, he didn’t. And when she was done, and settin’ next him again, he said out loud, so’s a lot of people heerd him, “I’m not stuck on havin’ you singin’ ’round ’fore ev’ry-body. And that Noo York Doc is too blamed fresh.”
“Paw!” she says, like she was ashamed of him.