“Out by that grave, ’long the road where ole Bill Peter’s boy was buried, an’ afterwards dug up.
“Git out with your ghost stuff; there ain’t no such thing,” said Noisy. “Let’s have some music, Dick, and cheer up this scary bunch.”
“All right,” said Dick, as he lifted down from the log wall his battered guitar, inwardly pleased to center the attention of the crowd himself. He struck up a jigging chord and led out with a stanza from “Juanita.” The others chimed in, and the old shack was soon ringing with their rough music. They tried scraps of this old melody and of that till they were about sung out; then some one called for an Irish song from Pat.
“Will, be jabers,” he said, “I’m no nightingale; but here goes; now jine in the chorus”; and he sang lustily to Dick’s jigging accompaniment:
As I sat by my window one evenin’
The postmaster brought unto me
A little gilt-edged invitation
Sayin’ MaHuley come over to tea;
Sure I knew that Miss Fogarty sent it,
So I goes up fer old friendship’s sake,
And the first thing they gave me to tackle
Was a piece of Miss Fogarty’s cake.
“Now all togither,” said Pat, beating time; and they gave this lusty refrain:
There were plums and prunes and cherries,
There were citrons and cinnamon and raisins, too;
There were nutmegs and cloves, and berries,
And the crust it was nailed down with glue;
There were carroway seeds in abundance
Sure to build up a foine stomach-ache;
It would kill a man twice, after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty’s Christmas cake.
“Bully boy, Pat. You’re a born meadow lark!” came the compliments as he finished.
“Oh, thank ye, thank ye!” said Pat, making an operatic bow with flourishes. “Now let’s try, ‘We won’t go home till mornin’.”
“No, give us ‘In the evenin’ by the moonlight’ and let’s tumble in,” said Jim; “I’m gettin’ sleepy.”