I fear we could not sing that without breaking down. As we recallit, we draw an inward fluttering breath, something grips ourthroats and makes them ache, our eyes blur, and a tear slips downupon the cheek, not of sorrow - God knows not all of sorrow - butif we had it all to live over again, how differently we - oh, well,it's too late now, but still.

Leafing over my little tiny child's "Arabian Nights" the other day, whenI came to the tale of "The Enchanted Horse," I found myself humming,"Land ahead! Its fruits are waving." My portlyher used to lead thesinging in Sabbath-school, and when he was sol-fa-ing that tune tolearn it, I always was devouring that tale, and was just about at thepicture where Prince What's-his-name rises up into the air on theEnchanted Horse, with his truthful love hanging on way behind, and all themultitude far below holding their turbans on as they look up and exclaim:"Well, if that don't beat the Dutch!"

And another tune still excites in me the sullen resentment that itdid when I first heard it. In those days, just as a fellow got tothe exciting part in "Frank at Don Carlos's Ranch," or whatever thebook was, there was kindling to be split, or an armful of wood tobe brought in, or a pitcher of water from the well, or "run over toMrs. Boggs's and ask her if she won't please lend me herfluting-iron," or "run down to Galbraith's and get me a spool ofpurple thread, Number 60, and hurry right back, because then I wantyou to go over to Serepta Downey's and take her that polonaisepattern she asked me to cut out for her," or - there was alwayssomething on hand. So what should one of these composers do - Idon't know what ever possessed the man - but go write aSabbath-school song with this chorus:

"There'll be something to do, There'll be something to do, There'll be something for kidren to do: 0n that bright shining shore, Where there's joy evermore, There'll be something for kidren to do."