I can hear them mourn: "What shall I say
next?" and "Ma, make Effie play some place else, won't you? She
jist joggles the table like everything. Now, see what you done!
Now I got to write it all over again. No, I cain't 'scratch it out.
How'd it look to the County Fair all scratched out? Plague take
it all!"
The same hands have done maps of North and South America, and
red-and-blue ink pictures of the circulation of the blood. It
does beat all how smart the young ones are nowadays. I could no
more draw off a picture of the circulation of the blood - get it
right, I mean - why, I wouldn't attempt it.
I am kind of mixed up in my recollection of the hall right next to
the Fine Arts. You know it had two doors in each end. Sometimes
I can see the central space between the doors, roped off and devoted
to sewing-machines with persons demonstrating that they ran as light
as a feather, and how it was no trouble at all to tuck and gather,
and fell; to organs, which struck me with amaze, because by some
witchcraft (octave coupler, I think they called it) the man could
play on keys that he didn't touch, and pianos, whereon young ladies
were prevailed to perform "Silvery Waves" - that's a lovely piece,
I think, don't you? - and
"Listen to the mocking-bird, TEE-die-eedle-DONG
Lisen to the mocking-bird, teedle-eedle-EE-dle DONG
The mocking-bird still singing oer her grave,
toomatooral-oo-cal-LEE!"
And then again I can see that central, roped-off space given over
to reckless deviltry, sheer impudent, brazen-faced, bold,
discipline-defying er - er - wickedness.
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