"It may be," her husband returned. "I don't say it isn't. BUT
that isn't going to make any difference in what I'm going to do
to Penrod!"
CHAPTER XXI. YEARNINGS
The next day a new ambition entered into Penrod Schofield; it was
heralded by a flourish of trumpets and set up a great noise
within his being.
On his way home from Sunday-school he had paused at a corner to
listen to a brass band, which was returning from a funeral,
playing a medley of airs from "The Merry Widow," and as the
musicians came down the street, walking so gracefully, the sun
picked out the gold braid upon their uniforms and splashed fire
from their polished instruments. Penrod marked the shapes of the
great bass horns, the suave sculpture of their brazen coils, and
the grand, sensational flare of their mouths. And he saw plainly
that these noble things, to be mastered, needed no more than some
breath blown into them during the fingering of a few simple keys.
Then obediently they gave forth those vast but dulcet sounds
which stirred his spirit as no other sounds could stir it quite.
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