Grace Harlowes Golden Summer | Page 3

severe eye.

"I see," was Reddy's grim comment. Picking up the idle mandolin that
he had hastily deposited on Jessica's lap when he made his vengeful
dash upon Hippy, he strummed it lightly. "Why lug a mandolin along if
no one intends to sing?" he asked pointedly, ignoring Hippy's
disrespectful reminiscences.
"Oh, very well." Promptly foregoing the will to gather data concerning
Reddy's too-oft maligned Titian locks, Hippy began a lively warbling
which had nothing in common with the tinkling melody of the
mandolin. As a result the patient instrument immediately ceased its
complaining tinkle. Hippy, however, lilted on, undisturbed, for a matter
of five seconds, when a chorus of threatening protests warned him to
cease.
"Do be good," admonished Nora, laughing in spite of herself. "Either
sing prettily or don't try to sing at all."
"Madam, it is not necessary for me to try to sing. Song and I are one.
Let me give you an illustration. Name a ditty best suited to my voice
and I will prove myself."
"I can't recall one," discouraged Nora.
"Silent singing would suit you best," grumbled Reddy. "You could
make your lips do the deed without damaging any one else's ear
drums."
"I'll try it," amiably agreed the noisy soloist. "Just watch me." He
proceeded to indulge in a series of labial contortions that a dumb man
would have envied, and which had a most hilarious effect upon those
whom he had lately persecuted with raucous sound. Rudely requested
to desist from even this newly discovered pastime, he subsided with a
frantic signalling to the effect that he had actually been stricken dumb.
"It's too good to be true," exclaimed the relieved Reddy, laying fresh
hold on the mandolin. "While we have peace, sing for us, Nora. We
ought to make the most of this unexpected opportunity."

"Give us that song you used to sing about Golden Summer," begged
Jessica. "Don't you remember, that was one of the first pieces Reddy
learned to play on the mandolin? I haven't heard it in ages. I'd love to
hear Nora sing it again."
"Yes, sing it, Nora." Grace added her plea. "I don't believe I've ever
heard it. It will be very appropriate to the occasion."
"Wait a minute until I think how it goes." Reddy began a reflective
strumming, bringing back, bit by bit, a plaintive little air that carried a
subdued heart throb. "I've got it," he nodded. "Go ahead, Nora."
Her hands loosely clasped, Nora's clear, high voice, which Grace
always declared "had tears in it," took up the song of Jessica's fancy to
the subdued accompaniment of the mandolin.
"Golden Summer's in the land! Hark! Her call soars high and sweet.
Hedge-rows flow'r at her command; Roses spring beneath her feet.
Skies grow azure; life beats strong; Nature listens to adore; Thrilling at
the siren's song, Yields her wond'rous treasured store. Precious fabrics
of her loom Clothe her darling of the year; Wealth of sunshine; breath
of bloom; Cloudless days, so fair, so dear.
"Golden Summer's voice is stilled-- Autumn chants a requiem low.
Gone the days with rapture filled. Life's a-throbbing, sad and slow.
Skies grow hazy; sunshine wanes, Vivid green fast turns to brown;
Here and there along the lanes, Flames the sumac's lonely crown. Sings
the voice of Mem'ry now, 'Cleave to Love--lest it depart; Bind
remembrance on thy brow, Cherish Summer in thy heart.'"
"I don't like that song at all." As the last haunting cadence died away,
the dumb man came into energetic speech.
"Why not, Hippy? I think it is beautiful." Grace turned surprised eyes
on the stout protestant.
"It gives me the creeps," he declared shortly and with unmistakable
earnestness. "The first verse is all very nice. Summer is a golden time,

etc. But why remind us that fall is coming?" He had now resumed his
old, bantering tone. "I prefer to have summer three hundred and
sixty-five days in the year. I don't like murky skies, worn-out grass,
skeleton hedge-rows, muddy lanes, lonesome sumacs and cold winds.
As for winter, lead me away from it. I absolutely refuse to carry
summer about in so useful an organ as my heart, when it's ten below
zero and the water pipes are all frozen up."
"That is because you have no sentiment," challenged Reddy.
Whereupon the divine power of song was at once swallowed up in a
fresh burst of argument as futile as it was laughable. It was ended by
tactful Anne, who was always supremely useful when called upon to
arbitrate such important matters. The relative merits of "Golden
Summer" having been successfully decided and laid to rest, Nora again
lifted up her voice in a selection infinitely more to her liege lord's
liking. Then followed an old-fashioned song in which every one took
part,