I listened drowsily.
With the singing of brooks, I heard the twitter of little birds, the rustle of leaves on the trees, and saw the maiden-hair nodding in the glen. I was a little child far away in the Badger State. Again I was rambling through green fields, and plucking the pretty wild flowers. How sweet and tender the blue skies above! How gentle the far-away voice of my mother as she called me!
They were singing softly now,—men's voices, well trained, and in sweetest harmony:
"I'm coming, I'm coming,
My ear is bending low.
I hear the angel's voices calling
Old Black Joe."
They sang the whole song through, and I was now wide awake.
Familiar songs and old ballads followed, the master hand at the keys accompanying.
"We are going outside on the Ohio tomorrow," said one in an interval of the music, "and then, ho! for home again, so I'm happy," and a momentary clog dance pounded the board floor.
"Have a drink on it, boys?" asked a generous bystander who had been enjoying the music.
"No, thanks, we never drink. Let's have a lively song now for variety," and the musician struck up a coon song, which they sang lustily. Then followed "America," "Auld Lang Syne," and "'Mid Pleasures and Palaces," the dear old "Home, Sweet Home" coming with intense sweetness and pathos to my listening ear. No sound disturbed the singers, and others filed quietly out when they had gone away. "God bless them, and give them a safe voyage home to their dear ones," I breathed, with tears slipping from under wet lashes, and a great lump in my throat.
"Thank God for those who are above temptation, even in far-away Alaska," and again I turned, and slept peacefully.