I came to the Robinson house in the morning, finding the baritone who was performing that night practicing a very bouncy piece. I decided to follow him, seeing how much of the piece I could pick up. We hadn’t circled the lawn twice when I could sing it, up the octave, as well as he.
That night, I sat in a tree limb near the back, and couldn’t help myself but sing along with the baritone. Many near me looked around, confused.
As the last of the people packed up to leave at the end of the fantastic concert, I decided to stroll through the wood with them, whistling and singing as I went. They stopped to gawk in my direction. “It’s the Phantom Finale Forest Whistler,” someone whispered eagerly. I giggled at the nickname.
“Can you sing more?” another asked, half-frightened, half-eager. I decided to sing the lilty Irish Dulaman as I skipped up through the trees into the night sky.
I thank you for allowing me to describe my musical experiences; I hope to have many more. I eagerly await the next summer winds…