Doubtless my passing success with him in Paris had marked the
very highest stage of his spiritual development. I did not need to be
told now that he had left off sock-suspenders forever, nor did I waste
words in trying to recall him to his better self. Indeed for the
moment I was too overwhelmed by fatigue even to remonstrate about his
wretched lounge-suit, and I early fell asleep on one of the beds while
he was still engaged in washing the metal dishes upon which we had
eaten, singing the while the doleful ballad of "Rosalie, the Prairie
Flower."
It seemed but a moment later that I awoke, for Cousin Egbert was again
busy among the dishes, but I saw that another day had come and his
song had changed to one equally sad but quite different. "In the hazel
dell my Nellie's sleeping," he sang, though in a low voice and quite
cheerfully. Indeed his entire repertoire of ballads was confined to
the saddest themes, chiefly of desirable maidens taken off untimely
either by disease or accident. Besides "Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,"
there was "Lovely Annie Lisle," over whom the willows waved and
earthly music could not waken; another named "Sweet Alice Ben Bolt"
lying in the churchyard, and still another, "Lily Dale," who was
pictured "'neath the trees in the flowery vale," with the wild rose
blossoming o'er the little green grave.
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