“Papa, here is a gentleman who wants to hear the music.”
I smile, and the old German arises, smiles and extends me a welcoming hand. He is sitting in the center of this combination sitting-room, parlor, kitchen and dining-room, his zither, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on the table before him.
“I don’t know your name,” I say.
“Schmick,” he replies.
I apologize for intruding but they both seem rather pleased. Also the little daughter, who is sitting in one corner.
“Were you singing?” I ask her.
“No. Mamma,” she replies.
I look at the gray-haired little mother and she shows me even, white teeth in smiling at my astonishment.
“I sing but very little,” she insists, blushing red. “My woice is not so strong any more.”
“Won’t you sing what you were singing just before I came in?” I ask.