“I never heard of it,” said Phil.
“What? Never heard of it! May the Lord in his bounteous mercy forgive ye for your astounding ignorance. No time like the present, Philly, laddie;––no time like the present. Listen!––and never dare ye tell me again that ye never heard it,––for it’s your twin brother.”
And there, in that back street, beside the potato wagon, he burst into melody in as clear and rich a baritone voice as Phil had ever heard.
Jim was a born minstrel.
From beginning to end, he sang that never-dying, baby melody of the master-craftsman, Robert Louis Stevenson, with a feeling true to every word of it and emphasising particularly the parts which he fancied applied especially to Phil.
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“I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of it is more than I can see. He’s very, very like me from the heels up to the head, And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow, Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow, For he sometimes shoots up taller, like an India rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all. “He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see, I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me. One morning, bright and early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every butter-cup But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.” |
There were few people about when Jim began his singing, but a considerable crowd was gathered long before he finished.
Suddenly a little fair-haired girl came up to him with 230 a show of bashfulness. He put his hand on her curls.
“What is’t?” he asked. “Tell me;––ye need never be feart for me.”