his head is sacred and terrible, his power illimitable. There is one way—only one—to deal with him; but Robert Williams, having a brother of Penrod's age, understood that way.
Robert had one dollar in the world. He gave it to Penrod immediately.
Enslaved forever, the new Rockefeller rose and went forth upon the highway, an overflowing heart bursting the floodgates of song.
"In her eyes the light of love was soffly gleamun',
So sweetlay,
So neatlay.
On the banks the moon's soff light was brightly streamun',
Words of love I then spoke to her,
She was purest of the pew-er:
'Littil sweetheart, do not sigh,
Do not weep and do not cry.
I will build a littil cottige just for yew-ew-ew and I.'"
In fairness, it must be called to mind that boys older than Penrod have these wellings of pent melody: a wife can never tell when she is to undergo a musical morning, and even the golden wedding brings her no security; a man of ninety is liable to bust-loose in song, any time.
