Why, she couldn’t hear the thump and crash
Of cymbal and of drum,
When we shot off three salutes
For the captain of the fleet
She remarked, ‘Oh hear the dicky birdie!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!’”
Blynn found Mac a contemporary. They talked of England’s treatment of Ireland, of the causes of immigration and what the world was coming to, anyway. It was good talk, grown-man’s fodder; while, back of them, the youngsters, tucked up in a rug, sang songs, comic and sentimental, flashed nonsense back and forth, recited absurd verse, and even hallooed to passersby. Bless our soul! Did we ever go through that stage? Perhaps. Then praise be to memory for forgetting all about it!
Twilight found them ambling along the Wissahickon drive. In the woodland it was almost dark.
“This ’ere Bardek,” Mac shook his head, “’e’s a funny feller.”
“You’ve come to know him pretty well, I suppose, Mac,” prodded Blynn.