all sing-songs in the kitchen. To-night,
on account of my going and the need to give me a cheery send-off, we
had quite a concert. Tony was star.

Supper being pushed back on the table and a piece of wreckage flung on
the fire, he made himself ready by taking off his soaked boots and
stockings, and plumping his feet on Mam Widger's lap; then brought
himself into the vocal mood with a long rigmarole that he used to
recite with the Mummers at Christmas time. Soon we were humming,
whistling and singing "Sweet Evelina," whose sole musical merit is that
her chorus goes with a swing. The fire crackled and burnt blue. The
fragrant steam of the grog rose to the ceiling and settled on the
window. We leaned right back in our chairs.

"Missis," said Tony, "I feels like zingin' to-night."

"Wait a minute while I shuts the door, else they kids'll be down for
more supper."

"Us got it, an't us?"

"Yes, but _they_'ve had enough."

When Tony sings, he throws his head back and closes his eyes, so that,
but for the motions of his mouth, he looks asleep, even deathlike, and
is, in fact, withdrawn into himself.

I think he sees his songs, as well as sings them. I often wonder what
pictures are flitting through his mind beneath (as I imagine) the place
where the thick grizzled hair thins to the red forehead. His voice is a
high tenor. I make accompaniment an octave below, whilst Mrs Widger--a
little nasal in tone and not infrequently adrift in tune--supports him
from above.

We sang "The Poor Smuggler's Boy"--

Your pity I crave,
Won't you give me employ?
Or forlorn I must wander,
Said the poor smuggler's boy.

Then the "Skipper and his Boy"--

Over the mounting waves so 'igh,
We'll sail together, my boy and I-I,
We'll sail together, my bo-oy and I!

"Have 'ee wrote to George?" Tony asked.

"'Tis your place to du that."

"I an't got time...."

"Thee asn't got time for nort!"

The fisher's is a merry life!
Blow, winds, blow!
The fisher and his vitty wife!
Row, boys, row!
He drives no plough on stubborn land,
His fruits are ready to his hand.
No nipping frosts his orchards fear,
He has his autumn all the year,
Blow, winds, blow!

The farmer has his rent to pay,
Blow, winds, blow!
And seeds to purchase every day,
Row, boys, row!
But he who farms the rolling deep,
He never sows, can always reap,
T