"The little girl sang this song," continued my companion, reading from
a little printed slip:

"Dark and drear the world has grown as I wan-der
all a-lone,
And I hear the breezes sob-bing thro' the pines.
I can scarce hold back my tears, when the southern
moon ap-pears,
For 'tis our humble cottage where it shines;
Once again we seem to sit, when the eve-ning lamps
are lit,
With our faces turned to-ward the golden west,
When I prayed that you and I ne'er would have to
say 'Good-bye,'
But that still to-gether we'd be laid to rest.

"As she sang, a lump kind of crawled up in my throat. None of us
spoke.

"She finished this verse and went into the crowd to sell printed
copies of their songs, leaving her older sister to take up the chorus.
And I'll tell you, it made me feel that my lot was not hard when I saw
one of those sweet, modest little girls passing around a cup, her
mother playing in the dusty street, and her sister singing,--to just
any one that would listen.

"The chorus was too much for me. I bought the songs. Here it is:

CHORUS.