Oh, I shall never forget the joys of those hours in the hay-barn, nor the music of that secret tin whistle! I can hear yet the crooning of the pigeons in the eaves, and the slatey sound of their wings as they flew across the open spaces in the great barn; I can smell yet the odour of the hay.
But with years, and the city, and the shame of youth, I put aside and almost forgot the art of whistling.

When I was preparing for the present pilgrimage, however, it came to me with a sudden thrill of pleasure that nothing in the wide world now prevented me from getting a whistle and seeing whether I had forgotten my early cunning.

At the very first good-sized town I came to I was delighted to find at a little candy and toy shop just the sort of whistle I wanted, at the extravagant price of ten cents.

I bought it and put it in the bottom of my knapsack.
"Am I not old enough now," I said to myself, "to be as youthful as I choose ?" Isn't it the strangest thing in the world how long it takes us to learn to accept the joys of simple pleasures ?--and some of us never learn at all.

"Boo!" says the neighbourhood, and we are instantly frightened into doing a thousand unnecessary and unpleasant things, or prevented from doing a thousand beguiling things.
For the first few days I was on the road I thought often with pleasure of the whistle lying there in my bag, but it was not until after I left the Stanleys' that I felt exactly in the mood to try it.
The fact is, my adventures on the Stanley farm had left me in a very cheerful frame of mind.