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CHAPTER VII

HORTLY after the raid we removed to the south end of the city.

Our new home stood on a corner at the junction of four streets. On the opposite corner, buried among billows of maple branches, stood an orphans' home. Uncle Stanwood, besides having skill with a flute, could also play the piano. In our new home he placed a fifteen-dollar, firstmodel piano, far from new. Three of the ivories were missing, one of the keys had a habit of sticking, and the whole keyboard was a deep, rich yellow.

"Wife," said Uncle Stanwood when the furniture was in, "we must have a house-warming. The spinners want to come."

It was arranged for the following Saturday night. The preparations for the house-warming were easily made. The beer man called and left a half-barrel of beer, several cases of lager, and a few bottles of port wine. By eight o'clock the house-warming programme was in full operation. Tom Fellows, a tall man with a poetic face, sang an original composition entitled "Just to Come with Me to Town." The accompaniment to this was the work of a local bandmaster. Then followed drinks. Tom Fellows was followed by a deep-voiced spinner by the name of Marvin, whose contribution was "White Wings, They Never Grow Weary," etc. Then drinks were passed and gossip was indulged. Then drinks again, and after that-drinks. After that the programme was a grand disorder of oaths, drunken boastings, and calls for "More beer!" I went to bed in the next room and cried bitterly, for I had seen my Uncle Stanwood limp in a corner and my Aunt Millie, with face aflame, in a violent rage over some reproachful words Uncle had passed with her a few minutes before.

The Sunday's sun lighted up a sickening scene late the next morning. Glasses with odorous dregs of liquor in them were scattered on

chairs and window-sills. Chairs were overturned, and the parlor lamp, still burning, sent out an oily, smoky

smell. Uncle was still sleeping where I had seen him the night before, and Aunt Millie lay abed with her clothes unremoved. In the kitchen stood the empty beer barrel and the lager bottles.

On Monday morning I began work in the mule spinning-room. In the muleroom there are no women. A majority of the spinners are Englishmen. Their sons fill the subordinate positions, generally. My uncle proposed to teach me how to "back-boy"—that is, the art of renewing the bobbins which supply the spindles with cotton rope.

My uncle had many confidential talks with me relative to the home and to my future.

Al.

"Al," he said one day, "it's a shame that you have to stand what you do from aunt and me, and it's not proper that it should be so. Make a man of yourself, Don't waste your time. Get ahead, and let drink alone. I had the chance when I was younger. I saved up enough money to take me to Ireland, Paris, and the Isle of Man. I read good books and mixed with good company. It's the beer that brought me down." One day he proposed that I should begin to practice. on the piano. He drilled me on the scales, and every night helped me with a lesson on the piano. I took three regular lessons under him. The last lesson was very difficult. I practiced it faithfully and laboriously for four evenings, but could not make out the tune. It was called "an exercise" in the lesson book. Finally, on the fifth night, Uncle called from the kitchen, " Al, hurry up the tune a little." I did, and to my amazement found that it resolved itself into the very simple melody known as "Home, Sweet Home."

Besides this instruction in music, Uncle Stanwood took a great interest in my choice of reading. "Best plan to have," he advised, "is to get a book you like and read all of that author's books and get through with him." He brought me Stanley Weyman's romances, then Dumas's