all they have.'

Then Mary Jane watched the rich whenever she saw them, and vainly
sought for some one without a soul.

One day at the hour when the
machines rested and the human beings that tended them rested too,
the wind being at that time from the direction of the marshlands,
the soul of Mary Jane lamented bitterly. Then, as she stood outside
the factory gates, the soul irresistibly compelled her to sing, and
a wild song came from her lips, hymning the marshlands. And into her
song came crying her yearning for home, and for the sound of the
shout of the North Wind, masterful and proud, with his lovely lady
the Snow; and she sang of tales that the rushes murmured to one
another, tales that the teal knew and the watchful heron. And over
the crowded streets her song went crying away, the song of waste
places and of wild free lands, full of wonder and magic, for she had
in her elf-made soul the song of the birds and the roar of the organ
in the marshes.

At this moment Signor Thompsoni, the well-known English tenor,
happened to go by with a friend. They stopped and listened; everyone
stopped and listened.

'There has been nothing like this in Europe in my time,' said Signor
Thompsoni.

So a change came into the life of Mary Jane.

People were written to,