And in the song was the sob of a boy who sees his house of dreams burn to ashes; who sees his wonderful life and work out in the wide world turn to endless days of weed-pulling and dirt-digging in a narrow valley.
There was in the song, too, something of the struggle, the fierce yea and nay of the conflict.

But, at the end, there was the wild burst of exaltation of renunciation, so that the man in the barn door below fairly sprang to his feet with an angry:-- "Gosh! if he hain't turned the thing into a jig--durn him! Don't he know more'n that at such a time as this ?" Later, a very little later, the shadowy figure of the boy stood before him.
"I've been thinking," stammered David, "that maybe I--could help, about that money, you know." "Now, look a-here, boy," exploded Perry, in open exasperation, "as I said in the first place, this ain't in your class.

'T ain't no pink cloud sailin' in the sky, nor a bluebird singin' in a blackb'rry bush.
An' you might 'play it'-- as you call it--till doomsday, an' 't wouldn't do no good--though I'm free ter confess that your playin' of them 'ere other things sounds real pert an' chirky at times; but 't won't do no good here." David stepped forward, bringing his small, anxious face full into the moonlight.
"But 't was the money, Perry; I meant about, the money," he explained.
"They were good to me and wanted me when there wasn't any one else that did; and now I'd like to do something for them.

There aren't so MANY pieces, and they aren't silver.

There's only one hundred and six of them; I counted.