concert always began with "Home, Sweet Home" or "Forsaken;" always ended with "Old Black Joe," when the artist, swaying backward, was lost in his work. "You can hear ut sayin' the words," he breathed, yearning with tearful rapture toward the ceiling. The audience, respectful, soothed, in wreaths and layers of thick smoke from clay pipes, formed a circle of serious, weatherbeaten faces, of big legs crossed luxuriously, of protruding boot-toes that gently waggled to the rhythm of the harmonica.
Their talk circumnavigated the realms of free speculation: what best cured the bots; whether King Solomon might not have known about electricity; whether hairs could be changed to water-serpents; whether heroes of the Fenian raid should have medals; what might be the properest way of building a weir; whether ministers were better than other folks; and what place good dogs have in the Hereafter.
Frequently upon these abstract thoughts broke in a loud scuffle and a hoarse muttering at the door, and old Gale the fisherman
