Why don't you sing as you did a week ago? Answer me
that, please."
Freckles smiled confusedly at the Angel, who sat on one of his fancy
seats, playing his accompaniment on her banjo.
"You are a fraud," she said. "Here you went last week and led me to
think that there was the making of a great singer in you, and now you
are singing--do you know how badly you are singing?"
"Yis," said Freckles meekly. "I'm thinking I'm too happy to be singing
well today. The music don't come right only when I'm lonesome and sad.
The world's for being all sunshine at prisint, for among you and Mr.
McLean and the Bird Woman I'm after being THAT happy that I can't keep
me thoughts on me notes. It's more than sorry I am to be disappointing
you. Play it over, and I'll be beginning again, and this time I'll hold
hard."
"Well," said the Angel disgustedly, "it seems to me that if I had all
the things to be proud of that you have, I'd lift up my head and sing!"
"And what is it I've to be proud of, ma'am?" politely inquired Freckles.
"Why, a whole worldful of things," cried the Angel explosively.
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