Cale slid out of bed and went to a window. The sounds seemed to come from almost directly below them.
“It’s sure got me,” declared Cale. “I’m danged”
“I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.”
The voice was singing softly, unmusically; dwelling with fervor and longing upon the higher registers.
“I only ho-o-ope that you’ll be-e-e mi-i-i-ine.”
Cale Wesson slid the window up softly and looked down.
Harp Harris was sitting against a corner of the porch, his face lifted in the moonlight, eyes closed, as he poured out his soul in his own kind of melody—
“I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u;
Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.”
The last wailing note died away. Cale Wesson turned and looked at his wife. Mrs. Wesson was a big, raw-boned woman, with a sense of humor, and just now the curl-papers on her head were jerking from excess mirth.