MY WHISTLING IS CUT SHORT. 69

to Simmons for his happy thought, and it is
with a thankful heart, for having got through
my complication of troubles so far safely,
that I turn to leave the barn.

I go sauntering on towards the house with
my hands clasped behind me, and—the
truth must be told—whistling as blithely as
any bird, for whistling is my only musical
accomplishment, with the exception of a fairly
decent voice, perhaps, which is made generally
useful by the family for glees, quartcttes, &c.,
for if the soprano be absent, the cry is,
“Where’s Madge? put her in, she can scream
to any height;” or if Father’s bass is missing
—for on occasions of music in the drawing-
room he actually joins us and makes himself
agreeable, being really proud of our musical
powers—there is a general cry for Madge,
somebody being certain to add that “Madge’s
voice will reach the depths of the ocean.”

But though Father is tolerant of my variable
voice in part singing, he will never allow me
to perform a solo, for Freda has a clear, ring-
ing soprano voice, Gip a fine deep contralto,