This song is so well known to most of my readers, that I can describe his manner of singing it without repeating the whole of the words. He struck the instrument in playing with such violence that it shook his whole body, and produced the following ludicrous effect: "Some love to ro-o-o-a-me O'er the dark sea fo-o-ome, Where the shrill winds whistle fre-e-e; But a cho-o-sen ba-a-and in a mountain la-a-a-and, And life in the woo-o-ds for me-e-e." This performance was drowned in an uproar of laughter, which brought our vocalist to a sudden stop. "I won't sing another line if you keep up that infernal noise," he roared at the top of his voice. "When a fellow does his best, he expects his audience to appreciate his performance; but I allers he'rd as how the folks at W--- knew nothing about music." "Oh, do stop," exclaimed an old woman, rising from her seat, and shaking her fist at the unruly company,--"can't yee's; he do sing _butiful_; and his voice in the winds do sound so _natural_, I could almost hear them an 'owling. It minds me of old times, it dew." This voluntary tribute to his genius seemed to console and reassure the singing master, and, stemming with his stentorian voice the torrent of mistimed mirth, he sang his song triumphantly to the end; and the clapping of hands, stamping of feet, and knocking of benches, were truly deafening. "What will you have now?" cried he. "I thought you would comprehend good singing at last." "Give them a comic song," said I, in a whisper. "A comic song! (aloud) Do you think that I would waste my talents in singing trash that any jackass could bray? No, sirra, my style is purely _sentimental_. I will give the ladies and gentlemen the 'Ivy Green.'" He sang this beautiful original song, which is decidedly Russell's best, much in the same style as the former one, but, getting a little used to his eccentricities, we contrived to keep our gravity until he came to the chorus, "Creeping, creeping, creeping," for which he substituted, "crawling, crawling, crawling," when he was again interrupted by such a burst of merriment that he was unable to crawl any further. "Well," said he, rising; "if you won't behave, I will leave the instrument to Mr. H---, and make one of the audience." He had scarcely taken his seat, when the farmer from whom I had bought the butter forced his way up to the piano. Says he, "There's that pail; it is worth ten cents and a half. You must either pay the money, or give me back the pail.--(Hitching up his nether garments)--I s'pose you'll do the thing that's right." "Oh, certainly, there are twelve and a half cents." "I hav'nt change," said he, with a knowing look. "So much the better; keep the difference." "Then we're square, mister," and he sank back into his place. "Did he pay you the money?" I heard the wife ask in an anxious tone. "Yes, yes; more than the old pail was worth by a long chalk. I'd like to deal with that chap allers."