My mother gave me a
musical-box on my birthday; it was in the shape of a barrel-organ, and
had a strap which I could hang round my neck. I used to take this box
with me, and standing beside the Italian, I imitated his every movement,
holding my little organ just as he held his big one, and playing beside
him as long as he remained. So delightful did this man's occupation seem
to me, that I can remember quite well when my father asked me one day
what I would like to be when I was a man, I answered without a moment's
hesitation, 'An organ-grinder, of course, father.'
Those old boyish days, how long ago they seemed! What was the use of
recalling them? It would not bring back the mother I had lost, or the
father who had cared for me, and it only made me depressed to think of
them. What good, I asked myself, would my holiday do me if I spent it in
brooding over bygone sorrow? I must forget all this kind of thing, and
cheer up, and get back my spirits again.
'Now, little Jack,' I said, 'big Jack must go back to his picture; come
and climb into the old boat, and I'll see how you would do in the
foreground of it.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65