“It sounds like treacle,” said Abe, with a puzzled look; “but I don’t see what the podder’s got to do with it, anyhow; and the young woman’s got no business to be wasting her time waiting for the milk to set. Why don’t she use the cream separator?”
“I couldn’t write about a machine.”
“Why not—hum—er—hum—why not say this:
“After she turned the cream separator,
She sat and ate a cold pertater.”
“There is no sentiment in that!” I said indignantly; “and the words have no rhythm.”
“What’s rhythm?”
“Why, tone, modulation, music; you know!”
“Sonny! is there any music in the croak of a frog—is there? In course not! Now listen—what do you hear?”
I listened, and heard nothing but the drowsy hum and hollow drone of the surf.
“I can hear nothing.”