an appendage! He says
Ireland has the finest orators and the keenest statesmen in Europe
today, and when England wants to fight, with whom does she fill her
trenches? Irishmen, of course! Ireland has the greenest grass and trees,
the finest stones and lakes, and they've jaunting-cars. I don't know
just exactly what they are, but Ireland has all there are, anyway.
They've a lot of great actors, and a few singers, and there never was a
sweeter poet than one of theirs. You should hear my father recite 'Dear
Harp of My Country.' He does it this way."

The Angel arose, made an elaborate old-time bow, and holding up the
banjo, recited in clipping feet and meter, with rhythmic swing and a
touch of brogue that was simply irresistible:

"Dear harp of my country" [The Angel ardently clasped the banjo],

"In darkness I found thee" [She held it to the light],

"The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long" [She muted the
strings with her rosy palm];

"Then proudly, my own Irish harp, I unbound thee" [She threw up her head
and swept a ringing harmony];

"And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song" [She crashed into
the notes of the accompaniment she had been playing for Freckles].

"That's what you want to be thinking of!" she cried. "Not darkness, and
lonesomeness, and sadness, but 'light, freedom, and song.' I can't begin
to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be
proud of; but whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part
of them. I just despise that 'saddest-when-I-sing' business. You can
sing! Now you go over there and do it! Ireland has had her statesmen,
warriors, actors, and poets; now you be her voice! You stand right out
there before the cathedral door, and I'm going to come down the aisle
playing that accompaniment, and when I stop in front of you--you sing!"

The Angel's face wore an unusual flush. Her eyes were flashing and she
was palpitating with earnestness.

She parted the bushes and disappeared. Freckles, straight and tense,
stood waiting. Presently, before he saw she was there, she was coming
down the aisle toward him, playing compellingly, and rifts of light were
touching her with golden glory. Freckles stood as if transfixed.

The cathedral was majestically beautiful, from arched dome of frescoed
gold, green, and blue in never-ending shades and harmonies, to the
mosaic aisle she trod, richly inlaid in choicest colors, and gigantic
pillars that wer