"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.