“We passed a street minstrel who was singing in one of the more obscure Eastern languages, and I dropped a few orbs into his instrument case."Boss, was he singing what I thought he was singing?""A young man tells his beloved of his love for her."" 'My little hairy testicle—' ""It's a cultural thing, Loiosh. You wouldn't understand.”

“I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,Those of mechanics, each one singing his as itshould be blithe and strong,The carpenter singing his as he measures his plankor beam,The mason singing his as he makes ready for work,or leaves off work,The boatman singing what belongs to him in hisboat, the deckhand singing on the steamboatdeck,The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, thehatter singing as he stands,The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on hisway in the morning, or at noon intermissionor at sundown,The delicious singing of the mother, or of theyoung wife at work, or of the girl sewing orwashing,Each singing what belongs to him or her and tonone else,The day what belongs to the day — at night theparty of young fellows, robust, friendly,Singing with open mouths their strong melodioussongs.”

“We had a little slave boy whom we had hired from some one, there in Hannibal. He was from the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and had been brought away from his family and his friends, half way across the American continent, and sold. He was a cheery spirit, innocent and gentle, and the noisiest creature that ever was, perhaps. All day long he was singing, whistling, yelling, whooping, laughing - it was maddening, devastating, unendurable. At last, one day, I lost all my temper, and went raging to my mother, and said Sandy had been singing for an hour without a single break, and I couldn't stand it, and wouldn't she please shut him up.The tears came into her eyes, and her lip trembled, and she said something like this - 'Poor thing, when he sings, it shows that he is not remembering, and that comforts me; but when he is still, I am afraid he is thinking, and I cannot bear it. He will never see his mother again; if he can sing, I must not hinder it, but be thankful for it. If you were older, you would understand me; then that friendless child's noise would make you glad.' It was a simple speech, and made up of small words, but it went home, and Sandy's noise was not a trouble to me any more.”

“And what was the song which she sang? Ah, my little man, I am too old to sing that song, and you too young to understand it.”

“His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

“Sometimes,' he whispered at last, 'sometimes, I dream I am singing, and I wake from it with my throat aching.' He couldn't see her face, or the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes.'What do you sing?' she whispered back. She heard the shush of the linen pillow as he shook his head.'No song I've ever heard, or know,' he said softly. 'But I know I'm singing it for you.”