for him, told her that it was an old
sentimental sea-song of common sailors, often sung by officers at
their jovial gatherings. At this she pretended to look shocked, and
straightway demanded to hear the words, so that she could pronounce
judgment on her spiritual pastor and master.

He good-naturedly said that many of these old sailor songs were amusing,
and that he often found himself humming them. To this I could testify,
and he sang them very well indeed--quietly, but with the rolling tone of
the sailor, jovial yet fascinating. At our united request, his humming
became distinct. Three of the verses I give here:

"The 'Lovely Jane' went sailing down
To anchor at the Spicy Isles;
And the wind was fair as ever was blown,
For the matter of a thousand miles.

"Then a storm arose as she crossed the line,
Which it caused her masts to crack;
And she gulped her fill of the whooping brine,
And she likewise sprained her back.

"And the capting cried, 'If it's Davy Jones,
Then it's Davy Jones,' says he,
'Though I don't aspire to leave my bones
In the equatorial sea.'"

What the further history of the 'Lovely Jane' was we were not informed,
for Ruth Devlin announced that the song must wait, though it appeared to
be innocuous and child-like in its sentiments, and that lunch would be
served between the acts of the touching tragedy. When lunch was over,
and we had again set forth upon the Whi-Whi, I asked Ruth to sing an old
French-Canadian song which she had once before sung to us. Many a time
the woods of the West had resounded to the notes of 'En Roulant ma
Boule', as the 'voyageurs' traversed the long paths of the Ottawa, St.
Lawrence, and Mississippi; brave light-hearted fellows, whose singing
days were over.

By the light of coming events there was something weird and pathetic in
this Arcadian air, sung as it was by her. Her voice was a mezzo-soprano
of rare bracing quality, and she had enough natural sensibility to
give the antique refinement of the words a wistful charm, particularly
apparent in these verses:

"Ah, cruel Prince, my heart you break,
In killing thus my snow-white drake.

"My snow-white drake, my love, my King,
The crimson life-blood stains his wing.

"His golden bill sinks on his breast,
His plumes go floating east and west--

"En roulant ma boul