“I think he meant what he sayd an’ ’ud ’a’ kep’ his promise ef it hedn’t ’a’ ben that a woman interfered with his good intentions. She was Pet Parsley--Widdy Parsley, who lived with her mother back in Buzzard Walley. Borax hed a shine fer her afore she merried, an’ after she become a widdy he was wus ’an ever. One night at a ban’ festival, ’hen she was standin’ sellin’ at the ice-crim counter, he was a-jollyin’ her. Now he noticed that young Bill Hooker, who’d tuk his place in the ban’, was makin’ eyes at her over the top o’ his bass-horn while he was playin’. That near drove Bumbletree mad, fer him an’ Bill hed ben runnin’ neck an’ neck, an’ he knowd they was approachin’ the string. “‘Don’t Mr. Hooker play gran’?’ sais Pet kind o’ timid like. “‘Well, I don’t know,’ answers Borax, ‘I’ve heerd better.’ “‘Oh, hev ye,’ sais she, kind o’ perkin’ up her nose. ’I ’low you’re jealous. Can you play at all?’ “‘Well, can I?’ sais Borax. ‘Why, I can blow all ’round him.’ “‘I’d like to hear you,’ sais Pet. ‘Won’t you come an’ blow fer me sometim’?’ “‘I will,’ he answers, wery determined. “He went home that night bound to git time an’ pitch together. He started to practise ’round the house but his fam’ly objected. The missus ’lowed she could never play the ’cordine with sech a bellerin’ goin’ on. Amandy Lucy went so fur ez to say it ’ud ruin her voice. But that didn’t stop Borax. He sayd he’d practise ’way from the house. Every night after the feedin’ was done he use to take his horn, his music marks an’ a lantern, an’ go out on the hill ahint the barn. There, settin’ on a lawg, with the lantern hangin’ on a saplin’, he’d blow away. Many a night that summer ez I set over at our placet on the next ridge, I’d hear Borax a boom-boom-boomin’ to git the time. The big tones ’ud go echoin’ way over in the mo’ntain. Oncet in a while he’d hit it good, an’ I tell you uns it sounded pretty to hear them notes a-rollin’ deep acrosst the gut, a-sighin’ th’oo the trees an’ a-dyin’ way off in the woods. “Then he tuk up pitch. He blowed pitch fer a week an’ then tried pitch an’ time together. I thot he was doin’ pretty well. Still them ban’ boys wasn’t satisfied. They sayd he didn’t go up an’ down right, an’ that they couldn’t hev him a-blowin’ ’way at pitch an’ time an’ never makin’ no new notes. He ’lowed to me that they was a heap to learn ’bout blowin’ a bass-horn, but he was goin’ to git it ef it ’ud only be of uset in the next worl’. “At nights I could see his light a-twinklin’ in the woods acrosst the gut an’ hear him tryin’ to blow time an’ pitch an’ ups an’ downs all at oncet. He’d git his wind fixed to blow _A_, an’ out ’ud come a _C_; or he’d try fer a _D_ an’ land an _E_. He ’lowed to me oncet that sometim’ he thot mebbe it was willed that he was never to git a tune. But he kep’ at it.