But it's that little
fly-away Wilson girl that'll get the lessons, an' Waitstill will
have to use her voice callin' the Deacon home to dinner. Things
ain't divided any too well in this world, Lyddy."
"Waitstill's got the voice, but she lacks the trainin'. The
Boston singer knows her business, I'll say that for her," said
Mrs. Day.
"She's got good stayin' power," agreed Aunt Abby. "Did you notice
how she held on to that high note when she'd clumb where she
wanted to git? She's got breath enough to run a gristmill, that
girl has! And how'd she come down, when she got good and ready to
start? Why, she zig-zagged an' saw-toothed the whole way! It kind
o' made my flesh creep!"
"I guess part o' the trouble's with us country folks," Mrs. Day
responded, "for folks said she sung runs and trills better'n any
woman up to Boston."
"Runs an' trills," ejaculated Abby scornfully. "I was talkin'
'bout singin' not runnin'. My niece Ella up to Parsonfield has
taken three terms on the pianner an' I've heerd her practise.
Scales has got to be done, no doubt, but they'd ought to be done
to home, where they belong; a concert ain't no place for 'em. . .
. There, what did I tell yer? Patience Baxter's crossin' the
bridge with a pail in her hand.
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