r relief she laughed, a queer, cackling laugh which came strangely
from the lips of a woman barely thirty. The laughter was still on her
lips when a sound reached her ears which killed it as quickly as it
came.

Addio mia bella Napoli, addio, addio!
La tua soave imagine chi mai, chi mai scordar potra!
Del ciel l'auzzurro fulgido, la placida marina,
Qual core non imebria, non bea non bea divolutta!
In tela terra el 'aura favellano d'amore;
Te sola al mio dolore conforto io sognero
Oh! addio mia bella Napoli, addio, addio!
Addio care memorie del tempo ah! che fuggi!

The voice rang out like a golden bell, vibrating, as sweetly
penetrating. The strange words fell like the notes of the meadow lark in
spring, easy, liquid, yet with the sureness of knowledge.

The incoherent argument beneath the window ceased, the piano and the
phonograph were silenced, the wailing urchin dried its tears and all the
raw little town of Crowheart seemed to hold its breath as the wonderful
tenor voice rose and fell on the soft June night.

Adieu, my own dear Napoli! Adieu to thee, Adieu to thee!
Thy wondrous pictures in the sea, will ever fill my memory!
Thy skies of deepest, brightest blue, thy placid waves so soft and clear;
With heaving sigh and bitter tear, I bid a last, a sad adieu!
Adieu the fragrant orange grove, the scented air that breathes of love
Shall charm my heart with one bright ray, in dreams, wher'er I stray;
Oh, adieu, my own dear Napoli! Adieu to thee, Adieu to thee!
Adieu each soul-felt memory, of happy days long passed away!

The old street-song of Italy, the song of its people, never held a
stranger audience in thraldom. If the song had been without words the
result would have been the same, almost, for it was the voice which
reached through liquor befuddled brains to find and stir remote and
hidden recesses in natures long since hardened to sentiment. Rough
speeches, ribald words and oaths died on the lips of those who crowded
the doorway of saloons, and they stood spell-bound by the song which was
sung as they felt dimly the angels must sing up there in that shadowy
land back of the stars in which vaguely they believed.

Only those who have lived in isolated places can understand what music
means to those who year after year are without it. Any sound that is not
an actual discord becomes music then and the least gentle listen with
pathetic eagerness.