onaise pattern she asked me to cut out for her,"
or--there was always something on hand. So what should one of these
composers do--I don't know what ever possessed the man--but go write a
Sabbath-school song with this chorus:

"There'll be something to do,
There'll be something to do,
There'll be something for children to do:
On that bright shining shore,
Where there's joy evermore,
There'll be something for children to do."

I suppose he thought that would be an inducement!

One of these days America is going to be the musical center of the
world. When that day is fully come, and men sit down to write about it,
I hope they won't forget to give due credit to the reed organ, Stephen
Foster, and the Sabbath-school. The reed organ had a lot to do with
musical culture. It is much decried now by people that prefer a piano
that hasn't been tuned for four years; but the reed organ will come into
its own some day, don't forget. Without it the Sabbath-school could not
have been. Anybody that would have a piano in a Sabbath-school ought to
be prosecuted.

When music, heavenly maid, was just coming to after that awful lick the
Puritans hit her, the first sign of returning life was that people began
to tire of the ten or a dozen tunes to which our great-grandfathers
droned and snuffled all their hymns. In those days there was raised up a
man named Stephen Foster, who "heard in his soul the music of wonderful
melodies," and we have been singing them ever since--"'Way Down upon
the Swanee Ribber," and "Old Kentucky Home," and "Nellie Gray," and the
rest. Then Bradbury and Philip Phillips and many more of them began to
write exactly the same kind of tunes for sacred words. They were just
the thing for the Sabbath-school, but they were more, much more.

You know that when a fellow gets so he can shave himself without cutting
half his lip off, when it takes him half an hour to get the part in his
hair to suit him, when he gets in the way of shining his shoes and has
a pretty taste in neckties, he doesn't want to bawl the air of a piece
like the old stick-in-the-muds up in the Amen corner or in Mr. Parker's
class. He wants to sing bass. Air is too high for him anyhow unless he
sings it with a hog noise. Oh, you get out! You do, too, know what a
"hog noise" is. You want to let on you've always lived in town. Likely
story if you never heard anybody in the hog-pasture with a basket of
nubbins calling, "Pe