and I thought of Hattie and Jessie and tried to believe that they too were sharing in the comfort and contentment of our fire.
George, who resembled his uncle David, and had much of his skill with the fiddle bow, had brought his violin with him, but when father asked Frank to play Maggie, air ye sleepin', he shook his head, saying, "That's Dave's tune," and his loyalty touched us all.
Quick tears sprang to mother's eyes. She knew all too well that never again would she hear her best-beloved brother touch the strings or join his voice to hers.
It was a moment of sorrow for us all but only for a moment, for Deborah struck up one of the lively "darky pieces" which my father loved so well, and with its jubilant patter young and old returned to smiling.
It must be now in the Kingdom a-comin'
In the year of Jubilo!
we shouted, and so translated the words of the song into an expression of our own rejoicing present.
Song after song followed, war chants which renewed my father's military youth, ballads which deepened the shadows in my mother's eyes, and then at last, at my request, she sang The Rolling Stone, and with a smile at father, we all joined the chorus.
We'll stay on the farm and we'll suffer no loss
For the stone that keeps rolling will gather no moss.
My father was not entirely convinced, but I, surrounded by these farmer folk, hearing from their lips these quaint melodies, responded like some tensely-strung instrument, whose chords are being played upon by searching winds. I acknowledged myself at home and for all time. Beneath my feet lay the rugged country rock of my nativity. It pleased me to discover my mental characteristics striking so deep into this typically American soil.
One by one our guests rose and went away, jocularly saying to my father, "Well, Dick, you've done the right thing at last. It's a comfort to have you so handy. We'll come to dinner often." To me they said, "We'll expect to see more of you, now that the old folks are here."