Many a stormy wind shall blow
Ere Jack comes home again."
Some one had brought a ukulele. Some one who hit the strings with a gay discordancy, a gleeful insolence that seemed to say, "Sure, it's out of tune. Who cares?"
The last agonizing chord rode out on the Hudson, and a voice falsely keyed and tuneless followed with a startlingly lengthy "agai-ain." A burst of high feminine laughter completed the grotesque performance.
The famous and beloved excursion steamer Burma glided on through the shining night. One fancied that she tossed her head disdainfully at the private boats that fluttered by like small, graceful birds. They were snobs who offered the silver river and the gleaming sweet-smelling night to a small, select company. The Burma was the real aristocrat of the Hudson. Her gentility was not so easily blasted that she feared the touch of the rabble. She could afford to open her doors to the sweltering hordes and give them music, dancing, refreshments as the advertisements reported. She gave them the magic of a river moon and romance, too, and all for a dollar twenty-five.
The passengers of the Burma danced and sang snatches of current songs that were born to live for one rollicking hour like the vows that were whispered in darkened recesses of the boat. Sizzling sodas, red and gold, leaped up
