The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch For these were patriotic concerts, Supported by the leading patriots of the town, (Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer), And all the musicians were getting union wages--and in the summer at that. So they were patriotic too. The Welsh conductor was also patriotic, For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall, But when the manager asked him to play a number Designated as "Dixie," He disposed of it shortly with the words: "It is too trivial--that music." And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,-- (Because he was a Welshman).... The audience left after the concert was over And complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit" By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.
The train was due to arrive at eleven that night, But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one. The reporters of the leading dailies Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star. For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall, And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon. Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled. What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets Awaiting him impatiently at the station? It's a bed he wants--any bed will do; The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow. But in cooking the news for the public One a.m. is the same thing as noon day. So they rushed the star with these questions: "Not conscripted yet?..." "How do you like this town?..." "Will you give any encores tomorrow?..." "When will the war end?..." Ruthlessly he plowed through them, Like a British tank at Messines. The tenor wanted a bed, But Lesville wanted a story.... On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage, Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content, Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself. Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage, "Pillows and pillows and pillow...." was whispered, "Tonight he will sleep on them." Vulture-like swooped down the porters, Bearing them off to the taxis. Next morning the papers carried the story: "Singer Transports His Own Bedding," But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night. The baggage held scores for the orchestra.