“Roll on, silver moon,
Guide the traveller his way,
While the nightingale’s song is in tune;
For I never, never more
With my true love shall stray
By the sweet, silver light of the moon.”
Harry. Beautiful, beautiful! “There’s music in that air.” Now take a fresh roll, and keep me company while I take another of your mother’s delicious fresh rolls.
Sally. Making the sixth you have devoured before my eyes!
Harry. Exactly. What a tribute to her cooking! She’s the best bred woman in the country. Her pies are miracles of skill; her rolls are rolls of honor; her golden butter is so sweet, it makes me sweet upon her.
Sally. Well, I declare, Harry Holden, that’s poetry!