ittle while the music improves. A concertina never sounds so well as on the water in the open air, with the skies above and the deep stillness of nature around. Then no other instrument can so faithfully express the sigh of the lonely heart for the home that is far away, for the father, the mother, and the sweetheart. The concertina should be played by strong, tanned hands. It holds no more subtle poetry than that of a seafarer's heart, throbbing with the simplest joys and sorrows.
The music trembles through the quiet evening. It confides its troubles as openly as a child, and every one can understand the unhappiness it sings. The tune comes to me like a song with the simplest words:—
'I was alone in a foreign land, where they speak a language strange to me. I walked the big city amid thronging people, who had no care for me. I knew no place where I could feel at home, so I went to the public-house with the other fellows. There were lots of girls who smiled on me and wanted to get hold of me, because I had money in my pocket, and was big and strong. They drank with me, and one of them sat on my knee and called me her dearest friend. I got drunk and went with her; she took all my money, but gave me no joy. There is only one in this world who makes me happy, and she is many, many miles away. I betrayed my own little girl, and I am returning poor to her. I am amongst strangers who don't care for me, and I am crying because
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