"Mine won't come right," said Phil, rather ruefully. "I shall have to cheat on my X. Have I leave?"
"Well,—for once, perhaps," said his mother. "It must not be a precedent, however. Let us hear!"
And Phil gave what he called "A Mewl of Music." "A bandit—cheerful dog!—enjoyed fiddling. 'Go home!' insolently jawing ki-yied local musician. 'Nay! Oh, peace, queasy rustic! Take unappreciated violin. We execrate your zither!'"
"Yes!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "That is imperfect, but the first part is good. Next?"
"I think," said Hildegarde, rather timidly, "I think I have one ready. I hope it is correct,—shall I try it? It is 'The Sea.' Amid briny, cavernous depths, entrancing fishes gambol, hilarious, iridescent jewels. Kittenish, laughing mermaids nod; or perhaps, quietly resting, softly twine, under vanished wave-worn xebecs, yellow zoophytes."
"My dear Hildegarde, that is the best of all!" said Mrs. Merryweather, warmly. "That is a little poem, a little picture. We shall have nothing prettier than that to-night, and as we must not overdo a good thing, suppose we stop the stories for this time, and try something else. Where is our music, girls?"
Bell glanced at Hildegarde, and then at Colonel Ferrers. She had heard something of the passages between Jack Ferrers and his uncle, and knew that classical music was not the thing to make the Colonel enjoy himself. But Hildegarde nodded brightly in return.
"Let us sing!" she said. "Let us all have a good sing, as we used at camp. Where is the old song-book?"
Bell, comprehending, fetched an ancient volume, rubbed and thumbed into a comfortable mellowness.
"Here it is!" she said. "Come, boys, now for a chorus! Sing it as we used to sing it, sixteen campers strong, etc."