“The joke of the pound of butter ruined him, and followed him to the end of his life. “Wherever he used to go, the air was sure to ring with the shout: ‘Who stole the butter?’ “One day he went hobbling out of town. ‘I shall never come back again,’ he said. ‘They have stoned me to death with their cries. Old Seth is going where he will have peace, and the robins will sing over him, when the spring comes to the harbor. Old Seth is now going for good to the robins.’ “The prophecy was true. When we go out to ride I will show you where he used to live.” That afternoon we rode in sight of the sea. My friend turned into a quiet way at last. We came to a hut, and near it was a heap of stones, and over the door was a robin’s nest. “They say he used to live there. I do not know. But for a generation he was a wellnigh homeless wanderer in these roads and streets. The inhumanity shown to that poor old witless man is something more than a melting story. A single evil report may follow a man to the death of his self-respect, and much that is good in his heart and soul. I pity the lips that taunt a man like that.” I thought of the old reading-class and of James, and I read in James’s question the lesson that it had intended to imply. My dear old pupil was right, at least, in the charity of his thought, and I shall always love his memory in association with the curious history of “Trip-Trip-to-Dee-Dee.” CHAPTER X. THE FOLK-SONG FESTIVAL. AMONG the most delightful of all the entertainments given under the auspices of the World’s Congress Auxiliary in the Art Palace, Chicago, was the festival of the home songs of all nations. It was held in the halls of Washington and Columbus, the same singers passing from the one hall to the other, so that two audiences might enjoy the review of the world’s popular songs on the same evening. [Illustration: MR. FIELD.] The singers, many of whom came from the nations represented on the Midway Plaisance, were dressed in the costumes of their own country, and were accompanied by their national instruments. The most beautiful of all folk-songs were those of Wales; among the most unique, those of India. The representation of old New England tunes was interesting. The concert closed late at night, the last number being “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” sung by Dr. Root, the composer of the song. Our trio listened to this wonderful festival with delight. “Every town ought to have a choral society to sing these songs,” said Mr. Marlowe; “they are, for the most part, songs of the heart. Even the songs of the nations that we call heathen have human sympathy in them. The human heart is one.” [Illustration: HUNGARIAN DANCERS.] Mr. Marlowe saved his programme for use in making up some limited entertainment of the kind for home use.