I Knew The Whistle Of Each Of

I Hate To See The Evening Sun Go Down.

Setting My Mind On A Musical Instrument Was Like Falling In Love. All The World Seemed Bright And Changed.

The Name Of My Ailment Was Longing, And It Was Not Cured Till I Finally Went To The Department Store And Counted Out The Money In Small Coins Before The Dismayed Clerk. When I Came To The House, I Held Up The Instrument Before The Eyes Of The Astonished Household.

If My Serenade Of Song And Story Should Serve As A Pillow For Some Composer's Head, As Yet Perhaps Unborn, To Dream And Build On Our Fond Melodies In His Tomorrow, I Have Not Labored In Vain.

You'll Never Miss The Water 'til The Well Runs Dry.