all too black to me, he sang a favourite of his, the pathetic ballad of two small children evidently begging in a business thoroughfare:
"Lone and weary through the streets we wander,
For we have no place to lay our head;
Not a friend is left on earth to shelter us,
For both our parents now are dead."
It was a fair crumpler in my then mood. It made me wish to be out of North America—made me long for London; London with a yellow fog and its greasy pavements, where one knew what to apprehend. I wanted him to stop, but still he atrociously sang in his high, cracked voice:
"Dear mother died when we were both young,
And father built for us a home,
But now he's killed by falling timbers,
And we are left here all alone."
I dare say I should have rushed madly into the night had there been another verse, but now he was still. A moment later, however, he entered my room with the suggestion that I stroll about the village streets with him, he having a mission to perform for Mrs. Effie. I had already heard her confide this to him. He was to proceed to the office of their newspaper and there leave with the press chap a notice of our arrival which from day to day she had been composing on the train.
"I just got to leave this here piece for the Recorder," he said; "then we can sasshay up and down for a while and meet some of the boys."
