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The boy was very still for a little, but burst out presently: “I’m going to work, mother; as soon as school closes I’ll start.” Edith worked very hard. She called her operetta “The Triumph of Flora.” The words were her own, written hurriedly and set to familiar though classic airs. Yet many of the daintiest, most tripping melodies she wrote herself. The sorrows of humanity had winged her brain and dipped her pen in harmonies, that she might assuage them. Arrived at home almost bursting with information, the child recounted to his astonished mother a long complicated story of how “theh was a lot of bad men and they weh et by a big fish, the big fish met a man on the woad called Jonah and asked him what he was doing on the woad and Jonah pwayed weel hahd and wode on the fish and a big wind blowed him off, just like Lila William’s hen-house.”.
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“Never mind Mosey, Next Monday I’m goin’ to ask Mar to let me stay home and turn the nasty mouldy machine.” Mrs. Wopp’s eagle eye, again rested on the lowering face of her offspring. Miss Gordon complied, then followed the old favorite with a two-step played in as sprightly a manner as the organ would allow. Betty picked him a small bouquet. She knew that in the child’s hot grasp the flowers would soon droop and she loved them so dearly that she grieved to see them wither and die. St. Elmo, however, was not satisfied..
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