“Depraved taste!” snorted Fleet. “I’d like to know why you’re always telling me that?”
“Because,” said Tom, “those songs are composed merely to suit the popular taste. Many of them bring their publishers fabulous sums, but they are mighty poor contributions to our American music, though I’ll admit that they have their place.”
“Tom is right,” said Chot “Lots of songs are written in half an hour. A music publisher gets an idea. He rings up his lyric writer and tells him about it. The lyric writer gets busy, and probably dashes off two or three verses in ten minutes, much the same way as you compose yours, Fleet. Then the composer takes the words, and very often within the same space of time he has fitted a melody to them. Then, of course, the orchestration has to be made, the song is given to the printers, a lurid cover is designed, and the first thing you know it’s in the music stores, selling at the rate of many thousand copies a day.”
“Oh, well,” said Fleet, “your sermons are very pretty, but I don’t see why I should not sing what I please, when I please.”
Fleet always made some such reply as this, but invariably he did not sing any more ballads or “coon” songs for some time.
“By the way,” said Pod, “speaking of birds——”
“Who said anything about birds?” demanded Fleet.
“Well, speaking of them, anyway, did it ever occur to you that they were especially noted for their courage?”
“They’re not,” said Fleet “Most of them are cowards.”
“Well,” said Pod, “they die game.”