. . mi-i-i-i," finally manage to quaver
out the sweet old tunes we learned when we were little tads, each
with a penny in his fat, warm hand: "Shall we Gather at the River?"
and "Work, for the Night is Coming"; and what was the name of that
one about:
"The waves shall come and the rolling thunder shock
Shall beat upon the house that is founded on a rock,
And it never shall fall, never, never, never."
What the proper English tune is to "I think when I read that sweet
story of old" I cannot tell, but I am sure it can never melt my
heart as that one in the old "Musical Leaves." with its twistful
repetitions of the last line:
"I should like to have been with Him then,
I should like to have been with Him then,
When He took little children like lambs to His fold,
I should like to have been with Him then."
I fear we could not sing that without breaking down. As we recall
it, we draw an inward fluttering breath, something grips our
throats and makes them ache, our eyes blur, and a tear slips down
upon the cheek, not of sorrow - God knows not all of sorrow - but
if we had it all to live over again, how differently we - oh, well,
it's too late now, but still.
Leafing over my little girl's "Arabian Nights" the other day, when
I came to the story of "The Enchanted Horse," I found myself humming,
"Land ahead! Its fruits are waving.
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