He beat time on the bottom of it, and
frequently interrupted the Thread Man to repeat a couplet which
particularly suited him. By and by he got to his feet and began
stepping off a slow dance to a sing-song repetition of lines that
sounded musical to him, all the time marking the measures
vigorously on the pail. When he tired of a couplet, he pounded the
pail over the bar, stove, or chairs in encore, until the Thread Man
could think up another to which he could dance.
"Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!
The Nightingale cried to the rose,"
chanted Jimmy, thumping the pail in time, and stepping off the
measures with feet that scarcely seemed to touch the floor. He
flung his hat to the barkeeper, and his coat on a chair, ruffled
his fingers through his thick auburn hair, and holding the pail
under one arm, he paused, panting for breath and begging for more.
The Thread Man sat on the edge of his chair, and the eyes he
fastened on Jimmy were beginning to fill with interest.
"Come fill the Cup and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-Garment of Repentance fling.
The bird of time has but a little way to flutter
And the bird is on the wing."
Smash came the milk pail across the bar. "Hooray!" shouted Jimmy.
"Besht yet!" Bang! Bang! He was off." Bird ish on the wing," he
chanted, and his feet flew. "Come fill the cup, and in the firesh
of spring--Firesh of Spring, Bird ish on the Wing!" Between the
music of the milk pail, the brogue of the panted verses, and the
grace of Jimmy's flying feet, the Thread Man was almost prostrate.
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