was just peeping over the hill. He turned drowsily on his pillow and was
preparing to launch into another delicious nap, when it occurred to him
that sunrise was a capital time for the drawing of shadows.
Instantly he scrambled out of bed, and five minutes later was on his way
through the orchard with his sketch-book under his arm.
Dew lay thickly upon the grass and leaves, and even the ruddy fruit
hanging overhead sparkled brightly as the first rays of the sun shone
upon its clinging drops.
"Now for the shadows," thought Tommy, glancing about the orchard. "I
think I'll draw that clump of currant bushes, if I can get a good
position."
He walked up and down several times, trying to find a place where his
view would be unobstructed. This was no easy matter amid so many trees,
but at length he found that by sitting inside the entrance of an old
rustic summer-house he could command his model exactly.
A few feet at his left, and close beside the stone wall dividing the
orchard from the public road, grew his mother's pear-tree, laden with
ripe, rich fruit.
Tommy had opened his book, and with half-closed eyes and uplifted pencil
was measuring the height of the currant bushes, when, to his surprise, a
head suddenly appeared above the wall, at the very spot shaded by the
pear-tree.
[Illustration: "A head suddenly appeared above the wall."]
The stranger cast a quick, cautious glance about the premises, showing
that his errand was no friendly one, then threw back his head and gazed
greedily at the luscious pears that grew above him. As he stood thus,
with the morning light falling brightly across his visage, Tommy saw
that his features were strongly marked and prominent, his face seamed by
deep and vicious lines.
The boy, accustomed to study the form and appearance of things, quickly
comprehended the stranger's long nose, low brow, pointed chin, and
hollow cheeks.
The man looked furtively about for the second time and sprang to the top
of the wall. Quite unconscious that a spectator was eagerly watching
from the covered structure near by, the intruder ascended boldly into
the pear-tree and proceeded to fill his pockets and hat with the juicy
fruit.
Never a sound came from the summer-house, but before the rogue had
completed his stolen harvest, Tommy's cunning pencil had drawn the
robber's portrait, with the narrowed eyes, leering lips, unkempt hair,
and rakish hat, exactly as they had impressed him at the moment when
the vagabond stood gazing aloft at the fruit overhead. Tommy finished
the sketch with a few hasty strokes, then closed his book and burst
suddenly from the summer-house, shouting "Wow, wow!" at the top of his
voice.
Down leaped the man to the earth, and scaling the wall at a bound, he
fled, dropping many of the pears as he ran.
Tommy's unearthly shrieks had roused the household, and he hurriedly
explained to his mother the cause of her daily vanishing pears,
displaying his sketch as proof of his argument.
An hour later Mr. Gainsborough opened Tommy's book before the squire,
pointed to the drawing upon the last page, and related the story of the
boy's early morning experience.
The squire immediately recognized the picture as of a ne'er-do-weel who
had been loitering about Sudbury for some time, and who had more than
once been convicted of petty thieving.
"I'll send for him," declared the magistrate; and that very afternoon
the offender was brought in.
Mr. Gainsborough accused him of invading his orchard and attempting to
carry away his fruit; but the culprit stoutly denied all knowledge of
the episode.
Quietly the squire opened Tommy's book, and held it before the
defendant's astonished gaze.
He uttered a baffled whine, then, with a laugh that was like a snarl, he
admitted his guilt of the morning, and also confessed to having robbed
the pear-tree upon three previous occasions.
"My man," announced the squire sternly, "I shall let you go free this
time upon your promise of good behavior, but if you ever repeat the
offence I'll give you a sentence of confinement on bread and water.
There is plenty of honest employment to be had in Sudbury, and I advise
you to go to work and live as a decent citizen."
The man shambled out, and from that day forth was seen no more about
the village.
Mr. Gainsborough, concluding from the day's developments that he could
justly afford to encourage this play-work of Tommy's, which was
beginning to take on a shade of importance, bought a large new
sketch-book and presented it to the boy.
Tommy turned five somersaults to express the warmth of his gratitude;
but before despatching the old book to its future home on the closet
shelf, he opened it and, with his bravest flourishes, wrote beneath the
sketch on the final page,--
"Tom Pear-tree's Portrait."
When years had gone by and Thomas Gainsborough had arrived at manhood,
he astonished all England by his remarkable paintings. His pictures of
woods and lanes, fields and shining water, captivated the country folk
by presenting so perfectly the scenes before their doors; and the city
dwellers were awakened by his colors to the charms of the wide, sweet
country they had forgotten.
These landscape studies set Thomas Gainsborough high in the world of
art, but when at length he turned his cunning brush to the task of
painting portraits, his fame was heralded from city to province. He
began by making likenesses of his wife and daughters, and when these
were exhibited at the Royal Academy, people exclaimed at the skill and
dignity of the work. Even King George III., who chanced to visit the
gallery on one of these occasions, paused before Gainsborough's canvas,
and clasped his hands in admiration.
"Summon this painter to the palace," commanded he, "and let him paint
his sovereign and his queen."
This order from the king made Gainsborough's portraits the fashion at
court, and straightway all the ladies of rank and beauty came to him,
entreating him to paint their pictures.
His fortune and reputation, by these well-earned favors, rose far beyond
anything he had expected, and if ever a man was truly happy in his life
and work, that man was Thomas Gainsborough.
He was so generous, so good-humored, so lovable in his old-time
frankness, that people who sought his acquaintance because he was a
famous artist quickly forgot his amazing skill in the pleasure of his
ever-boyish company.
It was supposed that he had reached the climax of his art when he
exhibited a picture of the Duchess of Devonshire, for this set Great
Britain agog with praise and wonder; but Thomas Gainsborough was
destined to climb yet one step higher in the ladder of public esteem,
and the work that crowned his success and brought the world to his feet
was a childish portrait entitled "Blue Boy." This was hung on the wall
of the Royal Academy, and when the spectators came surging through the
gallery, chattering amiably of this canvas and that, they halted
speechless before the boy with the thoughtful eyes, the fresh brown
skin, and the pale-blue dress. The lad was so young, so sweet, so
lifelike in his quiet pose, that not a word was uttered by the critics
standing by. One by one they slipped away, aware that Thomas
Gainsborough had not attained the goal of his greatness by pictures of
kings, queens, court beauties, and mighty soldiers, but by the youthful,
innocent portrait entitled simply "Blue Boy."
GEORG'S CHAMPION
[HÄNDEL]
"No, no, Hans, you are too loud, and Frieda goes too fast! Just listen
to Otto's trumpet and watch my cane, all of you, and then you'll be
right."
The tone was an emphatic one, and the speaker pounded sharply on the
floor with his walking stick.
He was a small boy, whose flaxen hair hung straight and thick on either
side of his face. He was panting with excitement, his eyes were
sparkling, his lips were set.
Before him, on the floor, sat six boys and girls in a semi-circle,
attending earnestly to his commands. One boy possessed a toy horn; two
others, mouth organs; a fourth, a chubby girl, had dropped a tin fife in
sheer fright; and the fifth and sixth clung to drum and dinner-bell
respectively.
"This time," went on the conductor sternly, "I want you to begin when I
bring my cane _down_. Now watch! One, two, three, four,--_one_!"
As the big baton descended with the leader's vehement "_one_," a
deafening uproar burst from the obedient orchestra.
"Keep on, keep on! You're going it now! _Slower_, Frieda! One, two,
three, four!"
The director swung his cane vigorously, shouting his orders above the
strains of the lusty symphony. A few measures were bravely rendered,
when the conductor suddenly threw down his stick with a look of extreme
exasperation.
"Peter," he said quietly, in the tone of a teacher sorely tried but
patient, "please don't _jingle_ the bell. Take the clapper in your hand,
and tap it when I say 'one' and 'three.' Like this!" and seizing the
bell, he illustrated his meaning, compelling the fat offender to perform
the feat to his satisfaction before going on with the rehearsal. When
the bell-ringer had been sufficiently drilled, the director once again
took up his baton and ordered a fresh beginning.
They were playing in good earnest, for this imperious conductor desired
something far above the discordant blasts that are usually obtained from
musical toys. Weeks before he had assigned to each playmate a certain
instrument, teaching him in private to draw real melody from it; and
to-day he had assembled the six performers in his bedroom, introducing
them to the delight of joining together in a familiar musical theme.
To be sure, the toys were shrill and piping, the players often faulty
and careless, but after an hour's persistent and perspiring labor on the
part of all concerned, the Duke's Military March rang through the house
in creditable time and tune.
While the music continued with true martial spirit, the door opened
softly, and a plump, fair girl of sixteen peeped into the room.
Perceiving the occupation of the children, she smiled brightly and
slipped away. A moment later another form appeared upon the threshold,
that of an elderly, dignified man. His hair was white, his eyes were
protected by huge gold spectacles, his shoulders were slightly bent; but
a close observer would have readily detected a resemblance between the
handsome old gentleman and the leader of the orchestra. One bore the
markings of age, the other the dimples of childhood; but they plainly
displayed a kindred will, energy, and intelligence, although one was
seventy and the other but seven.
Mr. Händel was the town surgeon of Halle, appointed by the Duke of
Sächse, and the flaxen-haired boy was the idolized child of his
declining years.
At first sight of the juvenile orchestra the visitor smiled as
indulgently as had the girl before him, entering the chamber
unobserved, and seating himself in a distant corner where he could watch
the highly interesting performance. But he turned quickly grave when his
eye fell upon the small director, who was bending anxiously forward, his
whole being absorbed in the sounds that issued from the toys at signal
of his cane. The flush that burned the leader's cheek, the intensity of
his glance, and the strained alertness of his lithe young body, seemed a
forbidding vision to the old gentleman, for his face clouded and he
shook his head in increasing disapproval.
Presently the concert ended, the children scrambled noisily to their
feet, and the conductor leaned upon his cane, regarding them with the
serene composure of a man who has wrought successfully and is modestly
proud of the fact.
"We must go home, Georg," said Peter, exchanging his bell for his cap.
"I'm going to run, 'cause I'm so dretful hungry," announced Frieda,
disappearing in quest of curds and seed cakes.
"You may all go now," consented the director affably, "but," raising a
commanding finger, "we will practise again at seven o'clock to-morrow
morning, and whoever is one minute late won't be invited to my party in
the afternoon."
"Oh, Georg," wailed Frieda, recalled from the corridor by this edict,
"must I come at seven, whether I've had any breakfast or not?"
The leader bowed.
"Whether you have had any breakfast or not," he rejoined firmly.
The children trooped down the stairs, leaving their chief to gather up
the toys and place them carefully upon the table.
He was about to leave the room when, for the first time, he discovered
that he was not alone.
"Father!" he exclaimed, bounding gladly to the old man's side, and
laying one hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Did you hear us
play? Didn't we do well? If only we had a fiddle we could make much
better music. Oh, father, it is such fun--why--what's the matter,
father? I sharpened your pens and aired your dressing-gown."
The boy's hilarious comments ceased as he became aware of his father's
darkened expression, and he hastened to allay the doubts that he
supposed to be the cause of this unlooked-for displeasure.
"I know, Georg, that you sharpened the pens, and I believe you when you
tell me that you aired the dressing-gown, but I shall give you a new
duty to-day. See that you perform it promptly!"
Georg listened in wonder, for never before had his father addressed him
with such hardness of manner, and instinctively the boy drew a pace
backward.
"A new--duty?" he stammered.
"I want you to take those musical toys and throw them into the pond, or
give them to some one who never comes into this house."
Georg was dumfounded.
"Throw them away--my trumpet, my fife, my--"
Breathless with consternation the boy rushed to the table and gathered
his treasures protectingly in his arms.
"These--I must--keep," he asserted chokingly, eying his father from the
breastworks of drum and bell.
For answer Mr. Händel pointed to the door, and Georg, reading naught but
doom in that significant gesture, dropped his toys with a crash and
clasped his father's arm beseechingly.
"Father, don't make me throw them in the pond! Tell me why it is wrong
for me to have them; please, father, tell me!"
The old gentleman's face expressed both resolution and kindness.
"Listen, Georg. When I gave you those toys at Christmas time, I expected
you to amuse yourself with them as other children do, in turn with
balls, kites, and sleds. But this you have failed to do, and every
play-hour since that time you have given to these musical toys. Now,
Georg, I mean to give you a thorough education, so that when you are a
man you may become a jurist, capable of following a respectable career
and earning a snug fortune. Ever since you were born I have planned and
saved for this purpose, and I cannot have my arrangements upset by these
silly mouth organs. Tut, tut!" as the boy endeavored to speak, "no
words, my son, over this matter! If I allow you to keep these things and
play with them, day in and day out, as you have been doing, you will
grow into a _musician_, and then where will my jurist be? No, no, it is
not to be thought of. When I came in to-day, you were so deep in the
Duke's March that you did not know that I was near. No, boy, you cannot
have them any longer. I would have taken them away before, had I
realized that you were so set upon them."
"Please, father--" whispered Georg, quaking, but persistent.
"You must either throw them away or give them away to-day. You shall
have an hour to decide which you wish to do, and at the end of it, I
shall expect the matter to be settled for all time. Also, Georg, I wish
you to see no more of four of those children who were here to-day.
Frieda and Peter seemed dull enough, but the others were too musical by
far to be fit companions for you. You may tell them that I forbid them
the house from to-day."
At this stroke of fate, Georg threw himself at full length on the floor,
sobbing tempestuously. His father departed without further parley, and
the boy was left alone to battle with his disappointment.
As the hour drew to a close, he mastered his emotion as well as he was
able, washed from his face the traces of weeping, and hurried out to
call a meeting of his orchestra by the pond-side.
He would not confess to his mates that he was grieved with the message
he had for them, but delivered it with an air of mannish bravado.
"I shan't have an orchestra any more, and I have brought you all of my
instruments. I'll give you each the one you've been using, so you can
play hereafter. You needn't come to-morrow to rehearse, for I can't lead
any longer."
"No orchestra! You won't lead!" chorused the musicians blankly, as they
received the cherished toys into their hands.
"Never again," affirmed Georg loftily, but he must needs set his teeth
hard upon his lower lip, lest its trembling should betray his stinging
regret.
"You see," he explained with the easy patronage of a captain who has led
his troops to victory, but who is about to be promoted out of their
midst, "it is not as though I were to be a musician when I grow up. It
is all well enough for you fellows to play on these things every day,
but I really ought not to waste my time with them, for," importantly,
"when I am a man, I am going to be a jurist."
"A _what_?" demanded his hearers in one breath, much impressed by the
high-sounding title.
"A jurist," Georg repeated, folding his arms, much gratified at the
effect his announcement had produced.
"What does a--a jurist do?" inquired Frieda, feminine curiosity
conquering her awe.
"Oh," replied Georg easily, "a jurist, Frieda, writes down in a book
everything that people ought to do, and when they don't do just as he
has written, he cuts off their heads."
"Ach!"
"Their heads?"
"You will learn to cut them off?"
Georg bowed.
"Now you understand why I must give up the orchestra. If you decide to
keep on without me, perhaps, sometime--"
He was turning away with a kingly wave of the hand, his last sentence
unfinished, when a question from Peter recalled him to the second and
most distressing part of his mission.
"You'll have your party to-morrow afternoon? We needn't play on things,
you know."
The blood mounted to Georg's forehead, and his fingers twitched
uncomfortably; but he managed to speak so boldly that his listeners were
quite unaware of his struggle.
"I am glad you mentioned the party, Peter, for I had nearly forgotten
it. No, I won't have any party, and I must tell you--at least, father
says--that--that Hans and Otto and Gretchen and Leopold must not come to
my house any more. Of course," he added hastily, seeking to drown the
gasps of his troopers, "it isn't that you're not good enough and nice
enough for me to play with, but father says that you four are very
musical, and you might make me musical too; but Frieda and Peter can
come, for they are dull."
"I hate your old tunes and notes, anyway," protested Peter, much
injured; but Frieda cut him short with the excited proposal,--
"Let's have your party for Peter and me and you, to-morrow!"
"_Have_ your party! _Have_ your party!" sneered Otto; and Hans informed
Georg in biting tones that he wouldn't forget this when his birthday
came next month.
Here Georg visibly weakened, for he remembered that Hans was expecting
either a violin or a flute upon that occasion, and he nearly lost his
studied indifference with the recollection. He was obliged to face
about, to hide the sudden teardrops that glistened on his cheeks; and,
marching proudly toward his father's pasture, with head high in air, and
back steadily kept toward his forsaken band, he called out,--
"I'm not mad at you, but you can be mad at me if you like. I won't have
a party to-morrow for Frieda and Peter, 'cause I like Hans and Otto
better than I do them, 'cause they know how to keep time when I beat."
He had reached the pasture with the last word of parting, and flinging
himself over the bars, he fled across the green as though twenty scouts
of the enemy were close upon his heels. The mask that he had worn to
conceal his heartburning had fallen, and he was crying bitterly as he
ran.
Old Kappelstahr, Georg's special pet since the days when she was a
sportive calf, stood mildly chewing her cud near the inner fence. As her
master dashed among the kine in evident agitation, the heifer turned to
look after him, apparently surprised that he had passed her by without a
word of greeting.
Georg, glancing backward, happened to catch that look of gentle
interest. He halted irresolutely, then, rushing to her side and throwing
his arms about her neck, the dejected jurist sobbed out his woe upon her
warm brown shoulder.
During the succeeding days and weeks, Georg felt as lonely as a
shipwrecked mariner cast upon a deserted island of the sea.
Instinctively, when lessons were done, he reached out for amusement to
the musical toys that were his no longer. Sometimes he heard sounds
arising from the pond-side, where his forbidden orchestra rehearsed
under Otto's direction. That he might neither make music nor mingle with
those who did, filled him with blank dismay; and hour by hour he
wandered about the house and garden, unable to attach himself to other
interests or games. His father required him to make an industrious use
of his school hours, even adding to the regular course certain studies
that he deemed useful to one preparing for a serious profession.
The old gentleman was sorry indeed when he saw how the absence of the
musical toys and companions affected Georg, and he even sought to modify
the discipline by presenting to the boy a complete set of carpenter's
tools.
Georg thanked him for the gift, but what was the old gentleman's
surprise, a week later, upon seeing the chest in his son's room, still
unopened, with every tool in place, and across the wooden lid a series
of black and white keys painted, in imitation of a harpsichord.
Mr. Händel frowned, but made no reference to the matter before Georg.
Mrs. Händel believed that her husband was right at all times, and would
not have reversed his decision regarding the musical affair, if she
could; but her sister Anna, the plump fair girl who had peeped in upon
the last rehearsal of the orchestra in Georg's room, sympathized warmly
with the boy, and sought to console him in every way possible.
Anna was barely sixteen, herself scarcely more than a child, blue-eyed,
yellow-haired, and a member of the Händel household. Her sweet temper
and merry heart had long before won Georg's devotion, and in his present
trial no one was admitted to his confidence but this youthful aunt.
Never a word of disrespect or rebellion did Anna utter against Mr.
Händel, for she believed implicitly in a child's obedience to his
parents; but, being of a musical temperament herself, she entered into
the boy's trouble as though she, too, were under the ban. In a certain
sense she was, there being no musical instrument in the house, and often
she felt stirred by the same impulse that wrought so constantly upon her
nephew.
"Never mind, Georg," she would say, "let Hans and Frieda have the mouth
organ and the drum. Just you attend to your school, and when your father
sees that you mean to study hard and carry out his wishes, he will give
them back to you."
But weeks dragged wearily by, and, despite Georg's diligence at school,
Mr. Händel did not relent. Frieda and Peter came occasionally, but they
had never been Georg's chosen comrades, and he joined their games
mechanically, plainly relieved when they took their departure. He longed
unceasingly for Otto, who was clever with the trumpet, and for Hans, who
was now the possessor of a violin.
He became restless and dissatisfied, and his mother despaired of a child
who went about with such a sober face.
He never gave voice to the discontent that surged in his breast, for
parental authority was strict in the Händel household, and he would have
been sharply punished for outspoken protest. But he did not recover from
his disappointment, as his father had so reasonably expected; a slight
paleness crept over his plump cheeks, his lively spirit was tinged with
melancholy, and from his compressed lips was seldom heard his former
ringing laugh.