"How they need something to stir them up," I thought.
When I had emptied the dipper, I sat down on the top step of the
porch, and, without saying a word to the man, placed my bag
beside me and began to open it. The shy girl paused, dipper in
hand, the children stood on tiptoe, and even the man showed signs
of curiosity. With studied deliberation I took out two books I
had with me and put them on the porch; then I proceeded to
rummage for a long time in the bottom of the bag as though I
could not find what I wanted. Every eye was glued upon me, and I
even heard the step of Mrs. Clark as she came to the but I did
not look up or speak. Finally I pulled out my tin whistle and,
leaning back against the porch column, placed it to my lips, and
began playing in Tom Madison's best style (eyes half closed, one
toe tapping to the music, head nodding, fingers lifted high from
the stops), I began playing "Money Musk," and "Old Dan Tucker."
Oh, I put vim into it, I can tell you! And bad as my playing was,
I had from the start an absorption of attention from my audience
that Paderewski himself might have envied. I wound up with a
lively trill in the high notes and took my whistle from my lips
with a hearty laugh, for the whole thing had been downright good
fun, the playing itself, the make-believe which went with it, the
surprise and interest in the children's faces, the slow-breaking
smile of the little girl with the dipper.
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