"Yes," said Mrs. Amory with a sigh; "it is sad, but true: there is neither poetry, nor picturesqueness, nor music among the English peasantry." "You have never heard of one, self-taught, with a real love of music in this country?" "Never: such do not exist among us." * * * * * The parish churchwarden was walking along the road on his way to his farmhouse, and the road passed under the churchyard wall. As he walked along the way--with a not too steady step, for he was returning from the public-house--he was surprised and frightened to hear music proceed from among the graves. It was too dark for him to see any figure then, only the tombstones loomed on him in ghostly shapes. He began to quake, and finally turned and ran, nor did he slacken his pace till he reached the tavern, where he burst in shouting: "There's ghosts abroad. I've heard 'em in the churchyard making music." The revellers rose from their cups. "Shall we go and hear?" they asked. "I'll go for one," said a man; "if others will go with me." "Ay," said a third, "and if the ghosts be playing a jolly good tune, we'll chip in." So the whole half-tipsy party reeled along the road, talking very loud, to encourage themselves and the others, till they approached the church, the spire of which stood up dark against the night sky. "There's no lights in the windows," said one. "No," observed the churchwarden, "I didn't notice any myself; it was from the graves the music came, as if all the dead was squeakin' like pigs." "Hush!" All kept silence--not a sound could be heard. "I'm sure I heard music afore," said the churchwarden. "I'll bet a gallon of ale I did." "There ain't no music now, though," remarked one of the men. "Nor more there ain't," said others. "Well, I don't care--I say I heard it," asseverated the churchwarden. "Let's go up closer." All of the party drew nearer to the wall of the graveyard. One man, incapable of maintaining his legs unaided, sustained himself on the arm of another. "Well, I do believe, Churchwarden Eggins, as how you have been leading us a wild goose chase!" said a fellow. Then the clouds broke, and a bright, dazzling pure ray shot down on a grave in the churchyard, and revealed a little figure lying on it. "I do believe," said one man, "as how, if he ain't led us a goose chase, he's brought us after a Gander--surely that is little Joe." Thus encouraged, and their fears dispelled, the whole half-tipsy party stumbled up the graveyard steps, staggered among the tombs, some tripping on the mounds and falling prostrate. All laughed, talked, joked with one another. The only one silent there was little Joe Gander--and he was gone to join in the great symphony above. A DEAD FINGER I