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On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano. "We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen, With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot, To-oo Congratulate... "Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful." And she beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all?
And all throughout the air there reigned the sense Of waking dream with luscious thoughts o'erladen, Of joy too conscious made and too intense By the swift advent of excessive Aiden, Bewilderment of beauty's affluence. Tuesday, November 28th. We passed Anaa, or Chain Island, in the morning watch, before daybreak.
Oh, Norman Ogilvie, are you still singing the wild song? and are you laughing now? or is it the old man Hamish that is crying in the dark? "There came to him many a maiden, Whose eyes had forgot to shine; And widows with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his sleepy wine. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine!"
"And all throughout the night there reigned the sense Of waking dream, with luscious thoughts o'erladen; Of joy too conscious made, and too intense, By the swift advent of this longed-for aidenn." On awaking, however, I was forced to reflect, how "mysterious are these laws! The vision's finer than the view: her landscape Nature never draws so fair as fancy drew."
Think, girls, think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot. And 'Congratulate." Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate. Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!"
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