Page:The Baron of Diamond Tail (1923).pdf/323

 imprisoned in a flower, and the beat of a foot that measured the time of a melody. Fred Grubb was playing upon his jewsharp his evening song. The sound of it soothed away their melancholy; they looked toward the place of the poet's concealment, and smiled.

"And so the book of our tragedies is finished," said Alma.

And stooping, she wrote with her finger in the dust, The End.