ea
of ballad vocalisation.

Horner thought he possessed a fine tenor voice: I didn't think so,
especially on this evening!

But, no matter what these two asked her to do, she did. If _I_,
however, requested any particular song, she said she did not believe she
could manage it; her voice could not compass it; she had lent it out;
or, she hadn't got it!

Was it not enough to provoke one? Wouldn't you have been affected by
it?

In addition to Horner and Mawley, there was also an odious cousin of
hers, called "Jack," or "Tom," or "Ned," or some other abominably
familiar abbreviation, who hung over the piano stool, and said "Min, do
this," and "Min, do that," in a way that drove me to frenzy.

I hate cousins! I don't see the necessity for them. I'm sure people
can get along very well without their existence. I would do away with
them to-morrow by act of Parliament, if I only had the power.

When everybody else who had a voice at all had exercised their vocal
powers, Mrs Clyde at last asked me to sing.

Instead of declining, as I would have done at any other time, on account
of her slight, I bowed my acquiescence and went to the piano.

To tell you the truth, I was glad of the opportunity afforded me for
carrying out a petty piece of revenge against Min, of which I had
suddenly bethought me.

I had composed a little song, you must know, that I believed highly
applicable to her at the moment, although when I had written it she was
no more in my mind than Adam or Eve, or both!

I sang it, looking into her face the while, as she stood by the
instrument; and these were the words. I gave them expression enough,
you may be sure.

"My lady's eyes are soft and blue, deep-changing as the
iris hue;
_But, eyes deceive
Hearts `worn on sleeve,'
And make us oft their power rue_!

"Her little mouth--a `sunny south'--wafts perfumed
kisses to the wind;
_But, winds blow cold,
And kiss of old,
A trait'rous symbol was, I find_!

"For pearly teeth and rosebud lips, whose honied wealth
the zephyr sips,
_But bait the lair
Where fickle fair,
Like Scylla, wreck men's stately ships_--

"And witching eyes and plaintive sighs, and looks of love
and tender words--
Love's tricking arts -
_Are poison'd darts,
More awesome far than pendant swords_!"

"Thank you," said Mrs Clyde; "it is very pretty. Your own, I suppose?"

"Yes," I said. I did not feel disposed to be more communicat