rogramme. Now as Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith,
and Miss. Blank are down for seven things between them there is likely
to be a very great change in the programme. Why is it that people
never know they cannot come until the last moment, I wonder? Perhaps
they think that the more often they disappoint the more they emulate
the "stars" in the musical world. Only the force of example, you see.
And, after all, what does it matter? The other performers are most
kind and sympathetic, and ready to help all they can. They are
delighted to sing four times each instead of twice. Selfish people!
they have no consideration for the audience, they only think of their
own enjoyment!

There is the youth who looks as if he were going to favor us with a
sweet treble. Lo, and behold! he opens his mouth, and out comes a
loud double bass voice that seems to spring somewhere from the region
of his boots. It is not a pretty sound by any means.

There is the smiling, simpering girl who comes forward gorgeously
arrayed in light blue satin. She chooses a song, all trills and little
scales, running up and down, shaking at last upon a high note for
nearly two minutes, and then coming down with a rush. This brings down
the house. We applaud lustily; we begin the encoring business here,
which, having once started, we do not intend to give up again. We like
to get as much as we can for our money, we Britons. She keeps us
waiting some time, too--taking a little refreshment in between,
perhaps--and then comes back beaming with smiles and, under the
impression that she is a second Patti, shrieks out in plaintive tones,
"Home, sweet home!" A cat might as well try to emulate a thrush! And
we never find it "sweet" either. Never do you dislike "Home" more than
when you hear it sung thus.

There is the sentimental man, who gets into position while the
introduction to his song is being played. He sticks his finger down
his collar (the object of which I can never understand), pulls both
cuffs out, stretches out his music a yard or two in front of him and
gazes above the audience with a hungry yearning look. His is always a
love song, an unhappy love song, that should bring tears to our eyes,
only we are so taken up with his expression, and the fear that he is
going to die or have a fit, that we have no time for weeping. True to
our instincts, he is greeted with deafening applause, and coming back,
he generously treats us to the last verse over again.

Everyone is n