car;
Leave me but the evening star,
And my solace that shall be,
Borrowing all its light from thee!

III

The old Master was talking about a concert he had been to hear.--I don't
like your chopped music anyway. That woman--she had more sense in her
little finger than forty medical societies--Florence Nightingale--says
that the music you pour out is good for sick folks, and the music you
pound out isn't. Not that exactly, but something like it. I have been
to hear some music-pounding. It was a young woman, with as many white
muslin flounces round her as the planet Saturn has rings, that did it.
She--gave the music-stool a twirl or two and fluffed down on to it like
a whirl of soap-suds in a hand-basin. Then she pushed up her cuffs as
if she was going to fight for the champion's belt. Then she worked
her wrists and her hands, to limber 'em, I suppose, and spread out her
fingers till they looked as though they would pretty much cover the
key-board, from the growling end to the little squeaky one. Then those
two hands of hers made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of
tigers coming down on a flock of black and white sheep, and the piano
gave a great howl as if its tail had been trod on. Dead stop,--so still
you could hear your hair growing. Then another jump, and another howl,
as if the piano had two tails and you had trod on both of 'em at once,
and, then a grand clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and down,
back and forward, one hand over the other, like a stampede of rats and
mice more than like anything I call music. I like to hear a woman sing,
and I like to hear a fiddle sing, but these noises they hammer out of
their wood and ivory anvils--don't talk to me, I know the difference
between a bullfrog and a woodthrush and--

Pop! went a small piece of artillery such as is made of a stick of elder
and carries a pellet of very moderate consistency. That Boy was in his
seat and looking demure enough, but there could be no question that he
was the artillery-man who had discharged the missile. The aim was not a
bad one, for it took the Master full in the forehead, and had the effect
of checking the flow of his eloquence. How the little monkey had learned
to time his interruptions I do not know, but I have observed more than
once before this, that the popgun would go off just at the moment when
some one of the company was getting too energetic or prolix. The Boy
isn't old enough to ju