"
"Every good gift is from God, mother, and we ought not to belittle them,
ought we, now?"
"I'm sure I don't know, John. I've been brought up with cotton-spinners,
and it is little they praise, if it be not good yarns and warps and
wefts and big factories with high, high chimneys."
"Well, then, cotton-spinners are mostly very fine singers. You know
that, mother."
"To be sure, but they don't make a business of singing, not they,
indeed! They work while they sing. But to see a strapping young man in
evening dress or in some other queer make of clothes, step forward
before a crowd and throw about his arms and throw up his eyes and sing
like nothing that was ever heard in church or chapel is a stunningly
silly sight, John. I saw and heard a lot of such rubbishy singing and
dressing when I was in London."
"Still, I think we ought to be proud of Harry."
"Such nonsense! I'm more than a bit ashamed of him. I am that! You
can't respect people who _amuse_ you, like you do men who put their
hands to the world's daily work.
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