practise such tunes as I knew. I am quite sure now that I must
have made a nuisance of myself, for it soon appeared to be the
set purpose of every member of the family to break up my efforts.
Whenever my father saw me with the whistle to my lips, he would
instantly set me at some useful work (oh, he was an adept in
discovering useful work to do--for a boy!). And at the very sight
of my stern aunt I would instantly secrete my whistle in my
blouse and fly for the garret or cellar, like a cat caught in the
cream. Such are the early tribulations of musical genius!

At last I discovered a remote spot on a beam in the hay-barn
where, lighted by a ray of sunlight which came through a crack in
the eaves and pointed a dusty golden finger into that hay-scented
interior, I practised rapturously and to my heart's content upon
my tin whistle. I learned "Money Musk" until I could play it in
Old Tom Madison's best style--even to the last nod and final
foot-tap. I turned a certain church hymn called "Yield Not to
Temptation" into something quite inspiriting, and I played
"Marching Through Georgia" until all the "happy hills of hay"
were to the fervid eye of a boy's imagination full of tramping
soldiers. Oh, I shall never forget the joys of those hours in the
hay-barn, nor the music of that secret tin whistle! I can hear
yet the crooning of the pigeons in the eaves, and the slatey
sound of their wings as they flew across the open spaces in the
great barn; I can smell yet the odour of the hay.

But with years, and the city, and the shame of youth, I put aside
and almost forgot the art of whistling. When I was preparing for
the present pilgrimage, however, it came to me with a sudden
thrill of pleasure that nothing in the wide world now prevented