"You're of age," said Bob Birnie, sucking hard at his pipe.

"You've had your schooling as your mother wished that you should have it.

You've got the music in your head and your fingers and your toes, and that's as your mother wished that you should have.
"Your mother would have you be all for music, and make tunes out of your own head.

She tells me that you have made tunes and written them down on paper, and that there are those who would buy them and print copies to sell, with your name at the top of the page.

I'll not say what I think of that--your mother is an angel among women, and she has taught you the things she loves herself.
"But my business is with the cattle, and I've had you out with me since you could climb on the back of a horse.