Stops in the veins and numbness comes upon them. Oblivion it may be--but give me music! Oh yes, this girl, Elenor Murray, well This talk about her home is half and half, Part true, part false. Her daddy nips a little, Has always done so. Like myself, the bills Have always deviled him. But just the same That home was not so bad. Some years ago, She was a little girl of thirteen maybe, Her father rented one of my pianos For Elenor to learn on, and of course The rent was always back, I didn't care, Except for my collectors, and besides She was so nice. So music hungry, practiced So hard to learn, I used to let the rent Run just as long as I could let it run. And even then I used to feel ashamed To ask her father for it. As I said She was thirteen, and one Thanksgiving day They asked me there to dinner, and I went, Brushed off my other coat and shaved myself, I looked all right, my shoes were polished too. You'd never think I polished them to look At these to-day. And now I tell you what I saw myself: nice linen on the table, And pretty silver, plated, I suppose; Good glass-ware, and a dinner that was splendid, Wine made from wild grapes spiced with cinnamon, It had a kick, too. And the home was furnished Like what you'd think: good carpets, chairs, a lounge, Some pictures on the wall--all good enough. And this girl was as lively as a cricket, She was the liveliest thing I ever saw; And that's what ailed her, if you want my word. She had more life than she knew how to use, And had not learned her own machine. And after We had the dinner we came in the parlor. And then her mother asked her to play something, And she sat down and played tra-la; tra-la, One of these waltzes, I remember now As pretty as these verses in the paper On love, or something sentimental. Yes, She played it well. For I had rented them One of my pets. They asked me then to play And I tried out some Bach and other things, And improvised. And Elenor stood by, And asked what's that when I was improvising. I laughed and said, Sonata of Starved Rock, Or Deer Park Glen in Winter, anything-- She looked at me with eyes as big as that. Well, as I said, the home was good enough. Still like myself with these collectors, Elenor Was bothered, drawn aside, and scratched no doubt From walking through the briars. Just the same The trouble with her life, if it was trouble, And no musician would regard it trouble, The trouble was her nature strove to be All fire, and subtilize to the essence of fire, Which was her nature's law, and Nature's law, The only normal law, as I have found; For so Canudo says, as I read lately, Who gave me words for what I knew from life.