singers had been picked up on life's road where it was roughest. Was
anything like this now to become his own experience? Falling on his ear
was an unmistakable gift of song, a wandering, haunting, unidentified
note under that early April blue. He had never heard anything like it.
It was a singing soul.

Voice alone did not suffice for his purpose; the singer's face,
personality, manners, some unfortunate strain in the blood, might debar
the voice, block its acceptance, ruin everything. He almost dreaded to
walk on, to explore what was ahead. But his road led that way, and three
steps brought him around the woody bend of it.

There he stopped again. In an embrasure of rock on which vines were
turning green, a little fellow, seasoned by wind and sun, with a
countenance open and friendly, like the sky, was pouring out his full
heart.

The instant the man came into view, the song was broken off. The sturdy
figure started up and sprang forward with the instinct of business. When
any one paused and looked questioningly at him, as this man now did, it
meant papers and pennies. His inquiry was quite breathless:

"Do you want a paper, Mister? What paper do you want? I can get you one
on the avenue in a minute."

He stood looking up at the man, alert, capable, fearless, ingratiating.
The man had instantly taken note of the speaking voice, which is often a
safer first criterion to go by than the singing voice itself. He
pronounced it sincere, robust, true, sweet, victorious. And very quickly
also he made up his mind that conditions must have been rare and