ng from the depth of lugubriousness to
the highest pitch of vivacity. This particular bassoon was of an
appearance that bordered upon the somber, the polished white of his
keys emphasizing the solemn black of his long, willowy body. And, as
he loomed up above the serene bald head of the musician that played
him, Aurora thought she had never seen a more distingue object.

The opera was "Il Trovatore," a work well calculated to call in play
all that peculiar pathos of which the bassoon is capable. When Aurora
saw the player raise the bassoon and apply the tiny tube thereunto
appertaining to his lips, and heard him evoke from the innermost
recesses of the bassoon tones that were fairly reeking with tears and
redolent of melancholy, she felt a curious sentiment of pity awakened
in her bosom.

Aurora had seen many an agonized swain at her feet, and had heard his
impassioned pleadings for mercy; she had perused many a love missive
wherein her pity was eloquently implored, but never had she experienced
the tender, melting sentiment that percolated through her breast when
she heard the bassoon mingling his melancholy tones with Manrico's
plaints. The tears welled up into Aurora's eyes, her bosom heaved
convulsively, and the most subtile emotions thrilled her soul.

In vain did young Magnus, the banker, seek to learn the cause of her
agitation, and it seemed like a cruel mockery when Aurora's mother
said: "You must remember, dear, that it is not real; it is only a
play." After this memorable evening, wherein an unexpected and
indescribable sweetness had crept into the young woman's life, Aurora
more frequently insisted upon going to the opera. A strange
fascination attracted her thither, and on each succeeding evening she
found some new beauty in the bassoon, some new phase in his
kaleidoscopic character to wonder at, some new accomplishment to
admire. On one occasion--it was at the opera bouffe--this musical
prodigy exhibited a playfulness and an exuberance of wit and humor that
Aurora had never dreamed of. He ran the gamut of vocal conceit, and
the polyglot fertility of his fancy simply astounded his rapt auditor.
She was dazed, enchanted, spellbound. So here we find the fair Aurora
passing from the condition of pity into the estate of admiration.

And now, having first conceived a wondrous pity for the bassoon, and
then having become imbued with an admiration of his wit, sarcasm,
badinage, repartee, and humor, it