ral rule) either "The British Grenadiers" or "Cherry Ripe."
The latter air is indeed the shibboleth and diploma piece of the penny
whistler; I hazard a guess it was originally composed for this
instrument. It is singular enough that a man should be able to gain a
livelihood, or even to tide over a period of unemployment, by the
display of his proficiency upon the penny whistle; still more so, that
the professional should almost invariably confine himself to "Cherry
Ripe." But indeed, singularities surround the subject, thick like
blackberries. Why, for instance, should the pipe be called a penny
whistle? I think no one ever bought it for a penny. Why should the
alternative name be tin whistle? I am grossly deceived if it be made of
tin. Lastly, in what deaf catacomb, in what earless desert, does the
beginner pass the excruciating interval of his apprenticeship? We have
all heard people learning the piano, the fiddle, and the cornet; but
the young of the penny whistler (like that of the salmon) is occult from
observation; he is never heard until proficient; and providence (perhaps
alarmed by the works of Mr. Mallock) defends human hearing from his
first attempts upon the upper octave.

A really noteworthy thing was taking place in a green lane, not far from
Padwick. On the bench of a carrier's cart there sat a tow-headed, lanky,
modest-looking youth; the reins were on his lap; the whip lay behind him
in the interior of the cart; the horse proceeded without guidance or
encouragement; the carrier (or the carrier's man), rapt into a higher
sphere than that of his daily occupations, his looks dwelling on the
skies, devoted himself wholly to a brand-new D penny whistle, whence he
diffidently endeavoured to elicit that pleasing melody "The Ploughboy."
To any observant person who should have chanced to saunter in that lane,
the hour would have been thrilling. "Here at last," he would have said,
"is the beginner."

The tow-headed youth (whose name was Harker) had just encored himself
for the nineteenth time, when he was struck into the extreme of
confusion by the discovery that he was not alone.

"There you have it!" cried a manly voice from the side of the road.
"That's as good as I want to hear. Perhaps a leetle oilier in the run,"
the voice suggested, with meditative gusto. "Give it us again."

Harker glanced, from the depths of his humiliation, at the speaker. He
beheld a powerful, sun-brown, clean-shaven fellow, about fo