"Shall we go home?" she asked presently.
"Not yet!" he implored.
"I wish I could go home," she repeated, by and by. "My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I wish I could go home."
The song finished, the singer ran into the dressing room and threw herself into the arms of the old negress half asleep there. She began to cry softly.
The negress patted her white shoulder.
"What's de mattah, honey," she purred.
"I want to go home," the singer sobbed. "I am sick of that song. I am sick of these men. My baby is crying for me. I know he is. I want to go home!"
IN A MOMENT OF WEARINESS
[From the same]
I'm tired of the turmoil and trouble of life,
I'm tired of the envy and malice and strife,
I'm tired of the sunshine, I'm sick of the rain,
If I could go back and be little again,
I'd like it.