Sketches in Prose and Occasional Verses Author:James Whitcomb Riley Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: ' Who painted it?' No, no, I mustn't tell you that !" " But are you not an artist? I see an easel in the corner there, and here's a maulstick lying on the man... more »tel." "I an artist? Why, man, what ails you? I told you not ten minutes since that I was an adjustable lunatic; and don't you see I am? You can't mislead me nor throw me off my guard. When it comes to reason or solid logic, don't you find me there? And here again, to show the clearness of my judgment, I remove the cause of our little dissension, and our friendly equanimity is restored—" and he turned the picture to the wall. I could but smile at the gravity and adroitness of his language and demeanor. "There," said he, smiling in return; "your face is brighter than the day outside; let's change the topic. Do you like music?" "Passionately," I responded. "Will you play?" "No; I will sing." He took the guitar from the table, and, with a prelude wilder than the " Witches' Dance," he sang a song he called "The Dream of Death," a grievously sad song, so full of minor tones and wailing words, the burden of it still lingers in my ears : "( gentle death, bow down and sip The soul that lingers on my lip; O gentle death, bow down and keep Eternal vigil o'er my Bleep; For I am weary and would rest Forever on your loving breast." His voice, as plaintive as a dove's, went trailing through the rondel like weariness itself; and when at last it died away in one long quaver of ecstatic melody, though I felt within my heart an echoing of grief "Too sweetly gad to name as pain," I broke the silence following to remind him of his having told me he was not a musician. "Only a novice," he responded. "One may twang a lute and yet not be a troubadour. By the way," he broke off abruptly, " is that expression origi...« less