Well, judge for yourselves!
This time, with one finger, Bunny picked out a tune which wandered from the top to the bottom of the piano.
I can't play the accompaniment to that melody until I get the right kind of piano. It's not written for the tempered scale. I must have quarter and sixteenth tones. Moses played it for me on his violin. . . . You heard it, Paul.
Like a cat singing to the discoverer of America. . . . You saw him sailing on and you listened to the cat.
In spite of himself, Harold smiled.
Bunny played his Bowery Ballet in two bars.
I'm tired. He wheeled around. 'paspe, sing for us, one of those nice, old-fashioned songs your mother used to sing.
Do! Do! from John Armstrong and Paul. Even Harold caught the infection of their enthusiasm.
Fannie's so adorable when she sings them, Campaspe said, as she went to the piano. She settled herself, preluded with a few bars, and then began:
Bedelia! Ne tombe pas!
En France, on est connaisseur;
Va z-y donc sans avoir peur!
Soutiens l'honneur national—
Le cak' walk sans égal,
