so
old-fashioned that I do not remember ever having seen one like it; the
silk, which had doubtless once been its adornment, was torn into shreds,
and it was impossible to tell what its original colour had been; the
wood was worm-eaten and decayed, and the leg upon which it had rested
could no longer support its weight.

'Let me hear you play it, Jack,' I said.

He sat down with great pride to turn the handle, but I noticed that half
the notes were broken off the barrel, which accounted for only fragments
of each tune being heard, whilst many bars of some were wanting
altogether. However, Jack seemed very proud of his performance, and
insisted on my staying till he had gone through the whole of the four
tunes which the poor old thing was supposed to play. He announced their
names, one by one, as each began.

'This is "My Poor Mary Anne," Mr. Jack, _very_ sad.' Then when that
was finished, 'This is the Old Hundred, _very_ old.'

After this there was a long turning of the handle without any sound
being heard, for the first part of the next tune was gone entirely. 'I
can't say the name of this one, Mr. Jack,' he explained; 'Marjorie calls
its something like "Ma says."'

'Oh! the "Marseillaise,"' I said, laughing; 'all right, little man, I
know that.'

'Then comes father's tune, father _does_ like it so. Listen, "Home,
sweet home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home." Do
_you_ like it, Mr. Jack?'

'Yes, I do like it, Jack,' I said; 'I knew it when I was a little chap
like you.'

As he played, once more it brought before me my mother's voice and my
mother's words. I had not thought of my mother for years so much as I
had done at Runswick Bay. Even the old organ brought her back to me, for
she was always kind to organ-grinders. There was an Italian who used to
come round with a barrel-organ when I was a little boy. I can see him
now. I used to watch for him from my nursery window, and as soon as he
came in sight I flew down to my mother for a penny, and then went into
the garden and stood beside him whilst he played. My mother gave me a
musical-box on my birthday; it was in the shape of a barrel-organ, and
had a strap which I could hang round my neck. I used to take this box
with me, and standing beside the Italian, I imitated his every movement,
holding my little organ just as he held his big one, and playing beside
him as long as he remained. So delightful did this man's occupation seem
to me,