too. Flibbertigibbet was a black imp who appeared one day in the market-place, and playing a jig on his fiddle, set all the people dancing whether they would or no. She played the jig, and one did not wonder at the people.
Next came Flibbertigibbet's march, which he played on his way to prison; his melancholy, as he sat in durance; the cats on the roof of his prison; finally, entrance of the benevolent fairy, who whisks him off in a balloon to fairyland.
All these, voice and piano gave together: nobody who heard “Flibbertigibbet” ever forgot it. She set Mother Goose
to music for the grandchildren; singing of Little Boy Blue
, and the Man in the Moon
She thought these nursery melodies among her best compositions; from time to time, however, other and graver airs came to her, dreamed over the piano on summer evenings, or in twilight walks among the Newport
Some of these airs were gathered and published in later years.1
In May of this year she notes the closing of a life long associated with hers.
. Laura Bridgman
died to-day at about 12 M. This event brings with it solemn suggestions, which my overcrowded brain cannot adequately follow.
Her training was a beautiful out-blossoming from the romance of my husband's philanthropy.
She has taught a great lesson in her time, and unfortunates of her sort are now trained, without question of the result.
This was to S. G. H. an undiscovered country in the first instance.
I cannot help imagining him as standing ”