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Amid dissertations on mathematics and philosophy and spoutings and quotations, I sang all the old songs learned in the days when I went from the cannery to the oyster boats to be a pirate such songs as: "Black Lulu," "Flying Cloud," "Treat my Daughter Kind-i-ly," "The Boston Burglar," "Come all you Rambling, Gambling Men," "I Wisht I was a Little Bird," "Shenandoah," and "Ranzo, Boys, Ranzo."
First, it was "Treat my daughter kind-i-ly," and then she swung into old-fashioned darky camp-meeting hymns, beginning with: "Oh! de Judgmen' Day am rollin' roan', Rollin', yes, a-rollin', I hear the trumpets' awful soun', Rollin', yes, a-rollin'." A big touring car, dashing past, threw a dusty pause in her singing, and Saxon delivered herself of her latest wisdom.
And with great solemnity and excruciating Batting, Billy sang: "O treat my daughter kind-i-ly; An' say you'll do no harm, An' when I die I'll will to you My little house an' farm My horse, my plow, my sheep, my cow, An' all them little chickens in the ga-a-rden. "It's them little chickens in the garden that gets me," he explained.
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