I sat up with groans. I hated to leave the hammock.

"The trout also sang it," I reminded myself. Followed the voice, a voice
from the stable, the cracked, whining tenor of a very aged vassal of the
Arrowhead, one Jimmie Time. Jimmie, I gathered, was currying a horse as
he sang, for each bar of the ballad was measured by the double thud of a
currycomb against the side of a stall. Whistle, guitar, and voice now
attacked the thing in differing keys and at varying points. Jimmie might
be said to prevail. There was a fatuous tenderness in his attack and the
thudding currycomb gave it spirit. Nor did he slur any of the affecting
words; they clave the air with an unctuous precision:

The ow-wurs I spu-hend with thu-hee, dee-yur heart,
(The currycomb: Thud, thud!)
Are as a stru-hing of pur-rulls tuh me-e-e,
(The currycomb: Thud, thud!)

Came a dramatic and equally soulful interpolation: "Whoa, dang you! You
would, would you? Whoa-a-a, now!"

Again the melody:

I count them o-vurr, ev-ry one apar-rut,
(Thud, thud!)
My ro-sah-ree--my ro-sah-ree!
(Thud, thud!)

Buck Devine still mouthed his woful whistle and Sandy Sawtelle valiantly
strove for the true and just accord of his six strings. It was no place