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Updated: June 5, 2025
Saxon could only nod, her lips too dry for speech. "The golden koa, the king of woods," Mercedes was crooning over the instrument. "The ukulele that is what the Hawaiians call it, which means, my dear, the jumping flea. They are golden-fleshed, the Hawalians, a race of lovers, all in the warm cool of the tropic night where the trade winds blow." Again she struck the strings.
A number of these old girls were grouped in an adoring attitude around a pretty young woman who talked constantly in an animated tone, and at intervals strummed on a ukulele. Continual cries of "Pom-pom!" rose on the air from the circle surrounding her. It was "Dear Pom-pom," "Pom-pom, you angel," "O darling Pom-pom!
The Iron Man was at your mercy all the time, and you kept it from being violent or terrible. Everybody could look on and enjoy and they did, too." "Huh, I want to say you was goin' some yourself. They just took to you. Why, honest to God, Saxon, in the singin' you was the whole show, along with the ukulele. All the women liked you, too, an' that's what counts."
A poor enough Sunday, I suppose, in the minds of those of you who spend yours golfing at the club, or motoring along grease-soaked roads that lead to a shore dinner and a ukulele band. But it turned Fanny Brandeis back a dozen years or more, so that she was again the little girl whose heart had ached at sight of the pale rose and, orange of the Wisconsin winter sunsets.
After which she told herself that it was little short of going without shoes or stockings through the streets to have been married the length of time she had been married and to possess not a single diamond. Returning home for a canned luncheon she discovered Gaylord humming a love song and strumming on his ukulele. "I say, old dear," he began, "I have had the greatest luck!
We were not in a hurry, and we spent the day at Ukulele, learnedly discussing altitudes and barometers and shaking our particular barometer whenever any one's argument stood in need of demonstration. Our barometer was the most graciously acquiescent instrument I have ever seen.
To Frederick there was a vague hurt in it all. When had such consideration been shown him? There were days when Tom could not go out, postponements of outdoor frolics, when, still the centre, he sat and drowsed in the big chair, waking, at times, in that unexpected queer, bright way of his, to roll a cigarette and call for his ukulele a sort of miniature guitar of Portuguese invention.
"To a woman you can love an' that loves you. Just take a look at Saxon there with the ukulele in her lap. There's where I got the jellyfish in the dishwater an' the prize hog skinned to death." A shout of applause and great hand-clapping went up from the girls, and Billy looked painfully uncomfortable. "But suppose the silk goes out of your body till you creak like a rusty wheelbarrow?"
She did use massage cream and beauty lotions with a deep seriousness you wouldn't suspect her of when she sat out in the hammock in the moonlight and scratched this ukulele and acted the part of a mere porch wren. That was really the girl's trade; all she'd ever learned.
Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had left a ukulele he had been tinkering with and were fixed on her questioningly. "Oh, I don't know!" she repeated steadily. Her cheeks were glowing. "Splush!" remarked Marjorie again. "Come through, Bernice," urged Otis. "Tell her where to get off." Bernice looked round again she seemed unable to get away from Warren's eyes.
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