the arm openings
of his vest, and he inserts one hand into his bosom, and over and over
again he tells you that he now contemplates laying himself down in peace
to sleep--which is more than anybody else on the block will be able to
do; and he rocks you in the cradle of the deep until you are as seasick
as a cow. You could stand that, maybe, if only he wouldn't make faces at
you while he sings. Some day I am going to take the time off to make
scientific research and ascertain why all bass singers make faces when
they are singing. Surely there's some psychological reason for this, and
if there isn't it should be stopped by legislative enactment.

When Sing-Bad the Sailor has quit rocking the boat and gone ashore, a
female singer generally obliges and comes off the nest after a merry
lay, cackling her triumph. Then there is something more of a difficult
and painful nature on the piano; and nearly always, too, there is a
large lady wearing a low-vamp gown on a high-arch form, who in
flute-like notes renders one of those French ballads that's full of
la-las and is supposed to be devilish and naughty because nobody can
understand it. For the finish, some person addicted to elocution usually
recites a poem to piano accompaniment. The poem Robert of Sicily is much
used for these purposes, and whenever I hear it Robert invariably has my
deepest sympathy and so has Sicily. Toward midnight a cold collation is
served, and you recapture your hat and escape forth into the starry
night, swearing to yourself that never again will you permit yourself to
be lured into an orgy of the true believers.

But the next time an invitation comes along you will fall again. Anyhow
that's what I always do, meanwhile raging inwardly and cursing myself
for a weak and spineless creature, who doesn't know when he's well off.
Yet I would not be regarded as one who is insensible to the charms of
music. In its place I like music, if it's the kind of music I like.
These times, when so much of our music is punched out for us by
machinery like buttonholes and the air vents in Swiss cheese, and then
is put up in cans for the trade like Boston beans and baking-powder,
nothing gives me more pleasure than to drop a nickel in the slot and
hear an inspiring selection by the author of Alexander's Ragtime Band.

I am also partial to band music. When John Philip Sousa comes to town
you can find me down in the very front row. I appreciate John Philip
Sousa when he fa