"snapping-bugs." These may be bought for one cent each, in the
snapping-bug season, of the ice-cream man. They are double bugs of tin,
which, if pinched in the proper spot, will yield a sharp click
reminiscent of the old-fashioned stereopticon lecture. Snapping-bugs may
go far in "socializing" a First Grade, and in making friends with a
newcomer at recess, but when they snap in school they give me an uneasy
sense that my audience is in haste to have the picture changed. So I
have six snapping-bugs.
I have five tumble-bugs. These are vivid green or purple gelatin
capsules about an inch long, each housing a lead ball. Place the bug on
an inclined plane, and it will promptly turn right side up, or the other
side up, as long as the plane continues to incline. Since tumble-bugs
are practically noiseless, their life is somewhat longer than that of
their snapping cousins.
I have one sling-shot. It might be argued that First Graders are too
young for sling-shots. So they are. They all too often receive their own
charge full in the eye. They much prefer their comfortable acorn pipes.
These are pandemic in October, as are also balloons.
I once perceived Dominick, in the height of the balloon season, with a
frankfurter balloon, a shape then new. The active part was at just that
moment inert--a dried and crumpled wisp of rubber. But its tube was
unmistakably going to be blown. Dominick will never know how much his
teacher wished to see his balloon, properly inflated, swaying and
glowing as only a green sausage balloon can glow. I was deterred by a
misgiving as to whether this type of balloon collapsed quietly after its
magnificent spectacle, or whether it was of that variety which emits a
peculiar penetrating whistle as it shrinks--an unmistakable sound, due
to be placed accurately in her list of sounds by my teacher-friend next
door, who does not approve of balloons in academic session. Dominick,
however, wished more than I did to see his lighter-than-air craft in all
its glory. I finally deposited it among the false noses and
horse-chestnuts in my drawer.
I used to wonder why a teacher _wanted_ marbles and walnuts, and
pencil-sharpeners shaped like a rabbit. She doesn't. She simply does not
want to hear them dropping, dropping, ever dropping, like the pennies in
Sabbath School. There is something thrilling to _any_body about a real
agate. If it is about, you have to look at it. It is so perfectly round.
Anything perfectly round, or perfectly cylindrical, likes, as we learn
in Kindergarten, to roll. It likes, upon occasion, to "rest"; but it
does not like this nearly as well. It is not fair to a child to let him
spend his time playing with an agate in school. Neither is it fair to
him to destroy the beauty of an agate for him--the charm of its shape,
or the marvel of its construction. A teacher should strike a medium so
delicately and absolutely medium that the angels themselves pause lest
they jar the weights.
But the most curious phenomenon which I have observed, one which could
not possibly be anticipated by an outsider looking in, is the effect of
my setting the clock. There are times when a perfectly innocent
shuffling of thirty-four feet in the First Grade assumes proportions far
more important than Murder in the First Degree. Then it is that I set
the clock. If it does not need setting, I set it forward first, and then
back again. The clock is high on the wall, reached by the janitor (all
too seldom) from a very high step-ladder. I set it from the floor. I
take the yardstick and advance on the clock. It is a nice operation to
push up the glass crystal with a pliant stick, haul down the
minute-hand, and finally to close the door. The door must first be
lifted into its proper position, and then hammered shut. Each bang of
the yardstick sounds as if it would be followed certainly by showers of
broken glass. I think that this uncertainty is what keeps my pupils'
hearts fluttering and their feet still. Deathly silence always
accompanies my setting of the clock. An imperceptible sound of relief,
like a group-sigh, follows the click of the door in its catch. I can
tiptoe back, on that sigh, to quiet industry.
It is true that children, with the best intentions, sometimes bring
inappropriate busy-work to school. But teaching them has not dowered me
with any disdain for my students. They are beneath me only in years. In
fact, I raise my hat to some of them in spirit, as I teach them to raise
theirs to me in truth. Here and there I calmly recognize a superior. I
am constantly taking care that no youthful James Watt can say to me in
later years, "You put out my first tea-kettle which boiled in school."
I suppose that Pauline will eventually be a gracious hostess, saying
just the right thing to her guests and to her husband--charming every
masculine acquaintance on sight. Even now, I find that she is engaged,
provisionally, to James Henry Davis. Perhaps some day Adamoskow, with
his long clever fingers and his dreamy eyes, and no head whatever for
"number," will be charging me five dollars a seat to hear him play. His
impresario can count the change for him.
And I know that James Henry Davis, at seventeen, will have the power to
break hearts to the right of him, and hearts to the left of him, with
the same dimple, the same wonderful pompadour, and the same lifted
eyebrow that he now uses for the same purpose in Grade I. I know that he
will out-dance his dancing-master at his Junior Prom. I shall wonder,
when I see him in his white gloves, how I ever dared to take his acorn
pipe away. Therefore I take it away as innocuously as possible, and
touch his soft pompadour, in passing, with a reverent hand.
TRIO IMPETUOSO
The first steps of certain things are beautiful; the first flush of buds
along a maple branch, for instance, or the first smooth launching of an
Indian canoe. But the first steps of music are commonly not so. The
first note of a young robin is a squawk. The first piercing note of a
young violinist is not in tune with the music of any sphere.
Musicians learn to expect a certain amount of wear and tear in first
attempts. Even the professional orchestra makes bad work of a new
symphony the first time through. And in an amateur orchestra, where the
players are of various grades of proficiency, the playing of a new piece
of music is a hazardous affair.
In our own orchestra, when we read a new piece of music for the first
time, we usually decide to "try it once through without stopping." Come
what will, we will meet it together. The great thing is to keep going.
Sometimes we emerge from this enterprise with all bows flying and
everybody triumphantly prolonging the same last note. At other times we
come out at the finish one by one, each man for himself, like the
singers in an old-fashioned round-song rendering of "Three Blind Mice."
To enjoy playing in an orchestra like ours, the musician should have a
great soul and a rugged nervous system. He should not be too proud to
play his best on music that is too easy for him, and he should not be
afraid to try music that is too hard. Music within the easy reach of
every member of an amateur orchestra is scarce. The first time through,
there is usually somebody who has to skirmish anxiously along,
experimenting softly to himself when he loses his place, and coming out
strong when he finds it again. From among the many desirable notes in a
rapid passage, he chooses as many as he can hit in the time allowed,
playing selected grace-notes here and there, and skipping the rest. We
cannot all have everything.
Most amateurs call this process "vamping the part." This, and the clever
deed known as "cueing in" passages supposed to be played by instruments
that we lack, are our chief offences against the law.
There are proud spirits in the world who refuse to have anything to do
with either of these sins. When they come to a passage that is not well
within their reach, they lay down the fiddle and the bow, and sit back
tolerantly while the rest go on without them. Their motto is the one
made famous by a certain publishing house: _Tout bien ou rien._ That is
a fine watchword for a publisher, but fatal in a scrub orchestra. There,
it is likely to mean that "tout" must go "bien," or you resign.
Nobody has ever resigned from our orchestra. We are called a Trio,
because our minimum is three. But, in actual fact, we rarely play with
less than seven performers. Whenever we are about to play in public, we
reenforce ourselves with additional instruments, beginning with a
favorite extra violin. If we are to play in the evening, we can count on
a viola and a clarinet, played respectively by the senior and the junior
partner of a hardware firm: Mr. Bronson and Mr. Billings, of Bronson and
Billings. If we are to play on Sunday, we are sure of a double-bass. And
on state occasions, we are joined by an attorney-at-law who plays the
piccolo. People who invite us to play always request music by Our Trio,
and then inquire delicately how many of us there will be.
A trio of this kind is sure to be in demand. In making our way to the
place where we are to play, we have learned to go in relays through the
streets. This is not because we are ashamed to be seen carrying the
badge of our talent through the town, but because if we all go together
there is a discussion about who shall carry what instruments. Barbara,
our 'cellist, is the storm-centre of these broils. The 'cello, like some
people, has the misfortune to look a great deal heavier than it really
is. No gentleman likes to let a lady carry one.
"Really, it's as light as a feather," says Barbara, swinging it easily
alongside.
"But," reasons the viola earnestly, "think how it looks."
To avoid all friction, Barbara goes ahead with the gentleman who plays
the bass-viol. Together they present a striking aspect to the passer-by,
but they have peace and mutual understanding in their hearts. Nobody
could expect a gentleman, however gallant, to carry both a 'cello and a
double-bass.
The rest of us follow along at a safe distance, and arrive at becoming
intervals at the place where we are to play.
For convenience in talking among ourselves, we have divided our
performances into three classes: the platform performance, the
semi-screened, and the screened. Our semi-screened programmes are those
where we are partly hidden from view, in choir-lofts, conservatories,
verandas, and anterooms. The screened are those that take place behind
palms. Of all these sorts, we vastly prefer the screened.
Each of us has a special reason for this preference. Mr. Bronson, the
viola, prefers it because, screened, he is allowed to beat time with his
foot. There is something very contented-looking about the tilt of his
long shoe, thrust out informally amidst the shrubbery--the toe rising
and falling in exact rhythm with the music, now legato, now
appassionato, our perfect metronome. Such happiness is contagious.
Barbara likes to be screened because then she can dig a tiny hole in the
floor for the end-pin of the 'cello, and stick the pin into it once for
all, while she plays. The vogue of the waxed hardwood floor is a great
trial to 'cellists. It is upsetting to feel your great instrument
skidding out from under you suddenly, with a jerk that you can neither
foresee nor control. When we go to places where the device of boring a
hole in the floor may not be well received, Barbara takes along a neat
strip of stair-carpet, anchors it at one end with her chair and at the
other with her music-stand, and sits on it firmly, much as the ancient
Roman used to camp upon a square of tessellated pavement brought with
him from Rome.
Mr. Billings, the clarinet, likes the screened performance because his
wife has told him that he has a mannerism of arching his eyebrows when
he plays. In playing a wind-instrument, the eyebrows are a great help.
He can arch them all he likes, behind the palms.
The rest of us enjoy the sense of cosy safety that comes when we arrange
our racks, distribute the parts, and settle down with our backs to the
foliage for an evening of music, out of sight. We can play old
favorites, far too tattered to appear on a printed programme; new things
not sufficiently rehearsed; extracts from compositions that we cannot
play beyond a certain point; and, best of all, those beloved collections
of what Mr. Robert Haven Schauffler used to call "derangements." All
these things, barred by the platform artist, we play blissfully, behind
the potted plants.
Since everybody outside our leafy covert is talking, we are free, not
only from criticism, but also from the obligation of acknowledging
applause. All the little niceties of platform procedure--bowings, exits,
dealing with encores--are out of the question. Since we play
continuously, there is no chance for encores.
There has been one exception to this rule. One night at a Saint
Patrick's Day banquet, Our Trio was out in full force. Even the piccolo
was with us. Our corner was carefully walled in with heavy burlap
screens, because this was a business-men's supper, and no ladies were
supposed to be present. We had brought along a sheaf of Irish music in
honor of the day, and we played it unexpectedly after a series of other
things. As we finished one of the appealing Irish airs, the applause
broke out all over the hall in a genuine encore. We listened,
electrified, laying an ear to the cracks. Barbara, who thinks that we
are altogether too easily set up by the plaudits of the crowd, stood up,
'cello at an angle, and made a series of elaborate bows for our benefit
behind the screen. The viola sprang to his feet and joined her, and they
were bowing and scraping hand in hand like Farrar and Caruso, when the
front screen was thrown suddenly wide open by the toastmaster who had
been sent to request an encore, and no less than forty gentlemen looked
in. Since that time, we have not felt too sheltered, even with burlap
screens.
The question of applause, so nearly negligible in the screened
performance, is a matter of the greatest moment on the platform. The
process of responding to it is complicated by numbers. A solo artist can
step in easily, bow, and step out again. But it takes too long for a
trio of eight or more to step in, bow, and step out. We have to wait
behind the scenes for a real encore.
We are highly gratified at a chance to play our encores, of which we
carry a supply. The only hitch is the little matter of deciding just
what an encore is. The viola thinks that an encore consists of applause
going in waves--starting to die out and reviving again in gusts of
hearty clapping. Two such gusts, he says, should comprise an encore. But
our pianist thinks that we should wait until the clapping stops
entirely, and that, if it then bursts out afresh, it shall be esteemed
an encore.
One evening the encore was by every standard unmistakable. Our mother
was at the piano that night, and, supposing that we were ready, led the
way in. The rest of us, absorbed in giving out the parts of the music,
did not see her go. We waited, wondering where she was. Tempests of
amused applause meanwhile surged up around our lonely accompanist
stranded in the hall. We heard the thundering, and scattered in frantic
search. One of us could have played the piano part, but the music for
that had disappeared as well as the musician. The double-bass chanced
upon the janitor's little boy in the corridor, and asked him if he knew
where our accompanist could be.
"Why, yes! Can't you hear 'em clap?" said the boy in surprise. "She's
went in."
I have heard that there are sensitive people who are jarred upon by
applause, people who hold the perfect-tribute theory: they think that
the audience, out of respect to the artist, ought to remain reverently
silent after each number. I cannot answer for the great artist, but I
know that our trio does not feel that way about it. We like applause.
Silence is a mysterious thing. From behind the stage how are you to tell
a reverent hush from a shocked one? The trained ear can instantly
classify applause; but silence, however reverent, does not carry well
behind the scenes. We like a little something after each number to cheer
us on.
We do know, however, that in a small private audience there is a sense
of strain if the listeners feel obliged to make a demonstration after
each selection. Clapping seems affected in a group of three or four, and
the business of thinking up well-selected remarks is a serious matter.
Knowing this, we always relieve our drawing-room audiences of
embarrassment by making the remarks ourselves. The moment the last
lingering whisper has completely died away from the strings, we turn as
one man and begin to compliment the music. "We like that ending better
than any other part of the whole thing," we say appreciatively. This
lifts a load of anxiety from the minds of our hearers, and serves to
break the hush.
The question of playing to guests in our own home is the subject on
which our family _ensemble_ most nearly came to mutiny. Our father had a
way, contrary to orders, of suggesting a little music when we had
visitors. The rest of us objected to this, especially if the guests were
people who did not play. Once, when an evening of hospitality to
strangers was in store, our mother was giving us all our final
instructions. She turned to our father last of all.
"Endicott," she began impressively, "this evening you mustn't say the
word 'music' unless somebody else suggests it. If they want us to play,
they will ask us."
Our father, a little grieved to think that any one should worry lest he
do so strange a thing, promised to comply.
But that evening, finding the guests more and more congenial in the
midst of firelight conversation, he turned to them cordially and said,
"I know that this is just the time when you would enjoy a little music,
but I have been told that I must not say the word unless you suggest it
first."
The guests, highly diverted, rose to the occasion and begged prettily.
They said that they had been starving for some music all along. When
visitors who do not really care for music have once been launched on the
process of asking for it, the kindest thing to do is to play promptly
something brief and sweet and trailing--some _Abendlied_ or
_Albumblatt_, for instance, and have it over. In the presence of guests,
such family crises must be tided over with neat persiflage. It was only
after the company had gone that the mutiny took place.
But there is one kind of audience that we like the best of all.
Sometimes of an early summer evening, when our whole orchestra has
gathered to rehearse for a performance that we have in store, the
relatives and friends of the players ask to be allowed to come and
listen. We arrange the hammock and steamer-chairs in a screened corner
outside the house, and there our listeners--perhaps the sister of the
bass-viol, the business partner of the piccolo, and a neighbor or
two--settle themselves comfortably under the windows. Then we play,
interrupted only by an occasional shout from outside, when somebody
requests an encore, or asks what that last thing was. Our steamer-chair
audience has often begged us to announce the composer and the name of
each selection as we go along, and we usually appoint somebody to do
this, megaphoning the titles through the window. But before we have gone
very far, we forget our audience. They lie there neglected, scattered on
the lawn. The dew falls around them, the shadows gather over them, and
they give up the attempt to attract our notice. We are rehearsing now,
not performing, and our blood is up.
Sometimes we have a strong-minded guest who refuses to be treated in
this way. He declines the steamer-chair, with steamer-rug and cushion,
preferring to sit against the wall in a cramped corner of the room where
we are playing. We assure him that the music sounds better from a
distance, but he begs to be allowed to stay. He says that he likes to
watch as well as listen. This does not disturb us; we are rather
flattered if the truth were known. In fact, we know a little how he
feels. There is a dramatic and pictorial value in the humblest
orchestra, no matter how densely you populate your music-room. Usually
the guest who enjoys this sight is a person who would like to play if he
knew how--one who can join in the excitement when things are going well.
Like all amateurs, we do become excited. And when we are excited, we
tend to play faster and faster, and louder and louder, unless something
holds us up. "Pianissimo!" shouts the double-bass, fortissimo. Thus
exhorted, we settle down just as earnestly, but with more attention to
the waymarks and the phrasings of the score.
Probably it is at these moments that we do our very best. The bass-viol
standing by the fireplace, his genial face unsmiling now, intent, takes
the rich low harmony with great sweeps of his practised bow. Barbara,
over against the music-cabinet, plays smoothly on, her dark old 'cello
planted firmly, the shadow of her hair across its great brown pegs. Mr.
Billings, with pointed eyebrows arching steeply, pipes and carols above
us like a lark. And through it all the vibrant foot of Mr. Bronson
faithfully beats time.
"Why don't you get together and play like this often?" inquires the
sister of the bass-viol, when the audience at last, with arms full of
steamer-rugs and cushions, comes trailing in.
The piccolo, passing sandwiches, looks up with hearty response. "Yes,
why can't we?" he asks. "After the reception, let's try to keep it up."
The rest of us, fastening the covers around our instruments, give
enthusiastic consent. "Every other Monday, let's meet without fail," we
say. But in our hearts we know that we shall not. We shall all be
busy--all sorts of things will happen to prevent--and the weeks will
fly. Yet we know that sooner or later our trio will meet again--probably
for a desperate rehearsal some months hence, just in time for the next
event where we are asked to play.
THE RETURN OF A, B, C
That is, I used to hope that they were returning. My neighbor's small
son, Tony, aged six, needed them. He needed them to learn to read with.
This was before I had any first-hand evidence about modern school
methods. I saw school only through Tony.
Tony was able to read, "over to school," such excerpts as the following:
"The gingerbreadboy went clickety-clack down the road." "Sail far, sail
far, o'er the fabulous main!" "Consider, goat, consider!" "You have made
a mistake, Mr. Alligator." Just why, I reflected, should "Mr. Alligator"
and "fabulous" be introduced to a pleasant child like Tony, who had not
as yet been allowed to meet "cat," "dog," "hen," "red," "boy," "bad,"
and a great many other creatures really necessary to a little boy's
existence?
His mother knew that Tony was not learning to read very fast. She argued
with me a little on principle. She said that James Whitcomb Riley wrote
"fabulous." I reminded her in a neighborly way that Mr. Milton wrote the
"Areopagitica," thought by some to be a good sort, but that, until Tony
knew his letters, the "Areopagitica" would be almost wasted on him. I
would have stepped in at this point myself and ponied him a bit, for
pure love, had it not been for the fact that I hated to have him get a
sensible A, B, or C mixed up with such corrupting associates as a
considering goat or a mistaken alligator. And he would certainly have
mixed them up. He would never have been able in this world to decide in
his little mind what relation "consider" had to A,B,C. And he would have
been quite excusable.
I began to think that his mother was too optimistic. She was trying to
console herself by the fact that, if she should die, Tony could at least
order gingerbread off a menu card. But could he? The sad fact that my
neighbor overlooked was that he didn't know "gingerbread" when he saw
it, but just "gingerbread_boy_"! Perhaps even at that, Tony might not
have starved, for even gingerbread_boys_ are edible, if Tony really
could have recognized that. But he couldn't. Not outside the confines of
his "reading-book"--Heaven save the mark! A modern word-fiend tried to
explain to me here, that, after having learned "gingerbreadboy," a child
comes naturally by three words (and even four if they allowed "gin" in
the school curriculum)--namely, "ginger," "bread," and "boy." But Tony
didn't. I tried him. He looked upon "ginger" as an entire stranger,
interesting in form, perhaps, but still foreign. Something, I was
convinced, was wrong. And I attributed this state to the fact that Tony
didn't know A, B, and C.