My father
is Irish, and if you want to see him get up and strut give him a teeny
opening to enlarge on his race. He says that if the Irish had decent
territory they'd lead the world. He says they've always been handicapped
by lack of space and of fertile soil. He says if Ireland had been as big
and fertile as Indiana, why, England wouldn't ever have had the upper
hand. She'd only be an appendage. Fancy England 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].
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