The Road to Dumbiedykes 



her evening court, the highest art of 

 Tiffany pales quickly into insignifi- 

 cance. And as for Mary Garden — well, 

 there is one thing sure : no note, how- 

 ever highly-paid or pitched that ever 

 floated o'er the footlights of any stage 

 in all this world can bear comparison 

 with those that ripple from the bursting 

 throat of a joy-mad bobolink or match 

 the sweetest sound this earth affords 



— the distant call of a meadow lark 

 across green fields. 



And yet there is one note — though 

 it is not given to everyone to hear it 



— transcending even these: the note 

 your heart finds in the voice of one 

 you love. 



