listened a
moment as if to catch the low organ tones, then began to sing.

She sang as a bird sings, every part of her in motion: throat, eyes,
head, body. The voice was clear, loud, full, strident, at times, on the
higher notes from over-exertion, but always childishly appealing. The
gallery leaned to catch every word of "The Holy City."

She sang straight on, verse after verse without pause. There was no
modulation, no phrasing, no interpretation; it was merely a steady
fortissimo outpouring of a remarkable volume of tone for so small an
instrument. And the full power of it was, to all appearance, sent
upwards with intent to the gallery. In any case, the gallery took the
song unto itself, and as the last words, "_Hosanna for evermore_" rang
upward, there was audible from above a long-drawn universal "Ah!" of
satisfaction.

It was followed by a half minute of silence that was expressive of
latent enthusiasm. The child was still waiting at the footlights,
evidently for the expected applause from the higher latitudes. And the
gallery responded--how heartily, those who were present have never
forgotten: roar upon roar, call upon call, round after round of
applause, cries of approbation couched in choice Bowery slang, a genuine
stampede that shook the spectators in their seats. It was an
irresistible, insatiable, unappeasable, overwhelming clamor for more.
The infection of enthusiasm was communicated to floors, balconies,
boxes; they answered, as it were, antiphonally. Faces were seen peeking
from the wings; hands were visible there, clapping frantically. In the
midst of the tumultuous uproar the little girl smiled brightly and ran
off the stage.

The lights were turned on. A drop-scene fell; the stage was transformed,
for, in the middle distance, swelling green hills rose against a soft
blue sky seen between trees in the foreground. Sunshine lay on the
landscape, enhancing the haze in the distance and throwing up the hills
more prominently against it. The cries and uproar continued.

Meanwhile, in the common dressing-room beyond the wings, there was being
enacted a scene which if slightly less tumultuous in expression was
considerably more dangerous in quality. A quick word went the round of
the stars' private rooms; it penetrated to the sanctum of the Japanese
wrestlers; it came to the ear of the manager himself: "The Little
Patti's struck!" It sounded ominous, and, thereupon, the Vaudeville
flocked to the dressing