Class _.?5 
 
 _i S ^i ^H^ -^f "V 
 
 Book n"7 eCFI^ 
 GopyrightN'___ii^5_ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnv 
 
5II|? Stttb^a nf MU 
 
 * BY 
 
 EDITH LYNWOOD WINN 
 
 CIT. 
 
 J908 
 CARL FISCHER 
 
 PUBLISHER 
 

 |l!PR>\'?y of congress 
 
 1 '••vo Z'yxv:- f!«:!i!ved 
 
 i DEC 18 1908 
 
 CLASS Ol XXc, ^io, 
 
 2tssS7 
 
 Copyright, 1908, 
 
 BY 
 
 CARL FISCHER 
 
 Stanbopc ipcess 
 
 F. H. GILSON COMPANY 
 BOSTON. U.S.A. 
 

 
 To the Memory 
 
 of 
 
€ontent$ 
 
 it 
 
 Page 
 
 I. The Idealist 9 
 
 n. The Song Cycle 17 
 
 III. The Song of Ravana . • • • • 23 
 
 IV. The Perfected Bow 39 
 
 V. The Crucible of Art 43 
 
 VI. To My Valentine 53 
 
 Vn. Astrid 63 
 
 VIII. The Cry of the Ungifted . . . .75 
 
 IX. The Old 'Cellist's Prayer .... 81 
 
 X. Soul Technic . 89 
 
 XI. Auf Wiedersehen ..... 99 
 
V^ uHuallg t0 b^ fnunJn tin 
 
 i)^ faU0 bg tl|^ magatiii^, too 
 mmk to bn mcr^ tljan pmnt 
 0«t t!f0 mag^ Anln ^nmt l^nti 
 morBlfTpp^r paaa^s bg nnh 
 markn tlj^ Bpnt lust aa tu^ mark 
 tif^ Btara at mgljt, aa m^ &r^am 
 anb rltmb. 
 
CDe Idealist 
 
 |£ loved Art in Nature and Nature in 
 Art. His symbols were drawn from 
 wood and field and fen, from every 
 winged creature and from the deep 
 recesses of the sea. His heart was 
 in tune with every note of suffering 
 in the great throbbing metropolis, 
 yet "be looked toward the hills, with their wide 
 stretches of green and red and gold that filled his 
 summers with delight and fed his spirit until it be- 
 came surcharged with exquisite harmonies. Some- 
 times he nourished these children of his fancy for 
 •months, not daring to trust them to another, or to 
 reproduce them in tone, but a loving companion, 
 hearing their first expression, in her zeal and perfect 
 understanding, led him to clothe them in new har- 
 monies, and send them on their mission into the 
 great world of Art. 
 
 There were days when, in his desire for more per- 
 fect forms of expression, he almost lost courage and, 
 though surrounded by things beautiful, his hand re- 
 fused to work, so weary was his soul with the striv- 
 ing after an ideal; again his companion cheered 
 and comforted him, believing in the ultimate tri- 
 umph of his genius. There were other days when he 
 sat silent at his work among the trees that he loved 
 — sat buried in deep thought beside the instrument 
 which was the expression of his thoughts and ideals. 
 
 [9] 
 
]Etu&es of %itc 
 
 At length, when this mood had spent itself, hearing 
 sweet voices in the evening's stillness, or viewing 
 from afar a loved form in a garden of old-fashioned 
 flowers, he awoke to newness of Ufe, girded himself 
 with the armor of faith, and long into the night he 
 worked, glorying in the wealth of his creative in- 
 stinct and the nobility of his themes. 
 
 It was with him as with all geniuses, the best 
 came to him after a period of despair and, for the 
 rest, mere love of praise or a passing desire for afflu- 
 ence never warped his soul or marred his manhood, 
 though he had vagrant moods. 
 
 When well-earned appreciation came to him from 
 other lands, he bowed his head and thanked God 
 that at last they were beginning to love and honor 
 his work, and he hastened again among the trees, 
 for there in the soft stillness, with the crooning of 
 the pines and the sweet notes of birds about him, 
 his soul was filled with ecstasy. A wild rose, a water 
 lily, a bit of heather, seemed to speak to him of 
 God and His handiwork. He did not pray as many 
 other men pray. He simply wrote down impres- 
 sions, and these bore their own stamp of spirituality. 
 
 But these treasure days of summer could not last, 
 though Love would fain have shielded him from the 
 rough world and created for him an ideal atmos- 
 phere where he could work and sing with a happy 
 heart. There came urgent calls from the great Hall 
 of Fame, and seekers after Knowledge wrote to him 
 from near and far, begging him to touch their art- 
 life at some vital point. He yielded, and though his 
 ministry was marked by lofty ideals and generous 
 service, the soul within him was often crushed to 
 earth, so hard was it to keep others abreast of his 
 
 [lo] 
 
UM 1I^ealtst 
 
 creed. At last, when he had made one fearful 
 plunge into the vortex of Ambition, for the sake of 
 this creed, the light which had sustained him failed; 
 the rock upon which he stood crumbled as if struck 
 by the iron heel of Commercialism, bearing its ma- 
 terial essence like a millstone about its neck — a 
 tragedy for which he was in no way responsible, 
 since Idealism is incompatible with all that bears the 
 stamp of mere commodity. 
 
 His friends came to see him and beheld him a 
 child, prattling in his joy. The soul, — that gallant 
 soul that had withstood the shocks of years of ser- 
 vice for Art, and sailed fearlessly into the open sea 
 of Idealism, had gone — gone they knew not 
 whither. When they took him by the hand and 
 wished him God-speed, they trembled, and great 
 marks of agony were upon their faces, for they 
 loved him deeply. Had they always shielded him, 
 encouraged him, helped him over the hard places of 
 Life? They asked themselves this question as, with 
 bared heads, they went out joyless into the joyous 
 day. 
 
 Months passed. The world awoke to the tragedy 
 of the disintegration of the Idealist's genius, pitied 
 his loved companion, who alone kept the embers 
 warm within the citadel of his mind, but God, the 
 God of Love and Art and Life itself, stood near and 
 sheltered him, even made him as a little child, giv- 
 ing him the long-lost joys and memories of youth, 
 transporting him again to that wondrous realm of 
 fancy in which, long ago, he had so lovingly lived 
 and moved. In his face dwelt purity, serenity, 
 gentleness and innocence. Then they clothed him 
 in pure white that the vision of childhood might be 
 
 [II] 
 
]£tu^cs of Xife 
 
 complete. One by one the last fleeting signs of 
 mentality went out, but he was not left in dark- 
 ness. A hand, warm, tender, strong; a voice, gen- 
 tle, loving and sweet, soothed him, comforted his 
 waiting days, and linked him with the great Beyond 
 into which his spirit had entered long before his 
 mortal body sank to rest. 
 
 In the meantime, the world was carrying his 
 tragedy close to its great heart, — that art-world in 
 which he had been so long a prominent figure; 
 and other Idealists sprang to the front, striving to 
 carry on his work and perpetuate his lofty ideals. 
 It seemed as if a mighty wave of sympathy was 
 wafted to him from all over the earth. His com- 
 panion heard it and it made the path easier for her; 
 he, however, played on and on in his childish glee, 
 revelling in a bar of sunshine on the carpet, even as 
 he had once revelled in the working out of some 
 theme of a beautiful symphony. 
 
 One day in midwinter, when the snow lay white 
 and soft on the door stones of his simimer retreat, 
 he sank to rest quietly, peacefully and sweetly. The 
 city traffic and bustle was all about him, but he had 
 journeyed to his long Home by the way of his little 
 nook in the trees, where his last days of perfect 
 peace and open mentality had been spent. Loving 
 hands prepared him for burial, and many were the 
 tokens of respect and generous sympathy which 
 came to his loved companion from all parts of his 
 native land. She smiled upon the still face in which 
 there was now no sign of life, for she had become so 
 
 [12] 
 
Ube ir^ealist 
 
 accustomed to soothing, protecting, and bearing 
 good news to him, that for a moment she felt that 
 she must convey in her smile all these last tokens of 
 fealty, friendship and love from his dear Art-world. 
 His face, still, immobile, calm, reflected her smile, 
 when, after a long journey, they reached his sum- 
 mer retreat and bore him to a loved spot near which 
 he had once worked so joyously. 
 
 There were no flowers in the garden, no song 
 birds in the trees, no murmur of bees among the 
 sweet scented clover. The day was cold, bitterly 
 cold, and the leafless trees cast sepulchral shadows 
 on the snowy coimterpane *neath which he must rest. 
 They had made a flowered nest for him, and there 
 was sunshine in the hearts of his followers, though 
 they wept, for each one had pledged to his name im- 
 failing loyality for the years to come, and devotion to 
 his ideals. 
 
 Life to his companion now meant double service. 
 Heaven had become tangible to her — a link for- 
 ever with that God to whom the immutable changes 
 of centuries are but as yesterdays, and whose love is 
 as tender as universal Motherhood. Through a rift 
 in the clouds He seemed to cast one swift benedic- 
 tion on the scene, then a dull gray pallor settled 
 slowly upon the Earth. The snowy counterpane 
 grew deeper until it entirely covered the flowers that 
 crowned the burial place. 
 
 Again the IdeaUst was clad in white, as in child- 
 hood. 
 
 it 
 
 Life throbbed and pulsed in its old way in the 
 city in which he had lived and worked. Men spoke 
 
 [13] 
 
]£tu^es of %\tc 
 
 his name tenderly and lovingly. Great orchestras 
 sought to carry out the spirit of his works in many a 
 Hall of Fame, and plain, careworn men pored over 
 what he had created, and prayed that one day they 
 might take up the thread of his art-life. 
 
 One would fain have sat apart for a time — his 
 companion — but she felt that his ideals must be 
 carried out, and again she took up her task lovingly 
 and fearlessly. 
 
 Time passed and there came to her the story of the 
 death of a great Slav, another Idealist. She asked if 
 he, too, had suffered in the attaining of his art- 
 ideals. When they told her his tragedy, she said, 
 " The Idealist*s monimient is usually foimd on some 
 hilltop where, exhausted, he falls by the wayside, 
 too weak to do more than point out the way. And 
 some hero worshipper passes by and marks the spot 
 just as we mark the stars at night, as we dream and 
 climb." 
 
 [14] 
 
®Ij^ ^0ng-OIgrl^ 
 
Cbe Song-Cycle 
 
 "^U^J^^HERE was once a man who had an 
 inordinate thirst for Knowledge from 
 the days of his boyhood ; his teachers, 
 seeing his zeal, overfed him and 
 sapped all the warm red corpuscles of 
 his physical life to thrust him into the 
 arena before he had reached his 
 prime. And he did win in the race, for when, pale 
 and worn, he stood before the greatest artist of our 
 time and played the last movement of that great man*s 
 Concerto with surprising technical dexterity and 
 brilliancy, the master was filled with wonder. 
 
 But there was something about this seeker after 
 Knowledge which seemed to hold him back — to 
 estrange him from his fellows, as it were, and yet 
 neither he nor they knew the cause. Feverish and 
 impatient, he worked from day to day, hearing 
 neither the glad voices of children in the streets nor 
 the importunities of the aged and helpless as they 
 asked alms at his door. 
 
 One day, after his fame as a virtuoso had been 
 fully established, and when, restless for wider re- 
 nown, his thirst for Knowledge was almost satiated, 
 he bethought himself of a Song-Cycle which he had 
 once written and set aside, that he might make some 
 portion of it more beautiful in the years to come. 
 And so he sent it to a pubHsher and waited for a 
 favorable answer, believing in his own heart that the 
 
 [17] 
 
JBtuDes ot Xife 
 
 public would welcome it as a beautiful work. But 
 the publisher was a man of unusual discernment, as 
 well as of deep knowledge of life, and he felt that 
 beautiful as the Song-Cycle appeared, it had no soul. 
 He was a large-hearted man, however, and even at 
 the risk of giving offense to the composer, he wrote 
 to him and begged him to rewrite the work, saying, 
 " The beauty of a song lies not in its text nor its 
 music alone. There is a subtle something behind 
 it all, a motif pure and sweet, that binds man to man 
 and fills the great gaps in Ufe made by sin and suf- 
 fering. It is this human element that is lacking in 
 your Song-Cycle. May it not be that great as has been 
 your training, and profound as is your knowledge, 
 you have not touched souls with the Universe? All 
 knowledge has but one object, and that is to raise man 
 and the works of man above the commonplace, and to 
 infuse new life into humanity. To feel the needs of 
 the Universe you must not shrink from the touch of 
 the fishmonger. He has built his habitation, stored 
 it with food, clothed his wife and children. He loves 
 LIFE; you love KNOWLEDGE. Who shall say that 
 he is not as worthy a citizen as you? Yet most men 
 say that Art maketh the world richer because it is 
 attached to a star. Give to your Song-Cycle some 
 new and vital impulse. Have you not heard the cry 
 of a little motherless child? Or have you not seen 
 the renunciation of Art for one perfect year of a 
 woman's love? Or have you not known a man 
 who waited a life-time and served a few people be- 
 cause they needed him so? You know, perhaps, that 
 his reward came to him in the fullness and ripeness 
 of his powers, but he chose to stand aside and let 
 other men reap their reward first, because he knew 
 
 [i8] 
 
Ubc Song*Cpcle 
 
 in his heart that true humiUty meant infinite 
 patience and loving service. The heart becomes 
 self-centered when there is no more generous motive 
 in Hfe than the storing up of Knowledge. Power 
 comes through throbbing impulse rather than 
 through repose ; through human love rather than 
 through intellectual ascendency ; through self-efface- 
 ment in the pursuit of a Great Ideal. Live and you 
 will write. Serve and you will learn to love. Sing 
 your own Song to the multitude before you ask 
 that one note of it be written upon the lined page 
 whose records, like himian deeds, can never be re- 
 called." 
 
 [19] 
 
®^ Bmt^ nf Sawana 
 
Cbe Song of Raoana 
 
 (AN EASTER TALE) 
 
 jUT of his palace in the East came 
 King Ravana, playing, as he walked, 
 his instrument of sycamore wood. 
 
 The tones of the ravanastron 
 soothed the listening ear, even as 
 the faint sweet essence of spices 
 lulled the tired traveller to sleep in 
 the green gardens of Ceylon. 
 
 The King was a mystic, an idealist, a prophet of 
 things to come in the great world of Art. Men 
 neither jeered nor reviled him, parrying his gestures 
 and words with rude blows and coarse jests, for the 
 world about him was reverent, feeling in his work the 
 first expression of a far-away ideal. Though he 
 made only melody, men were satisfied, for the beau- 
 tiful relations of tones had neither maddened nor 
 intoxicated them with significance, nor had Genius 
 yet been crushed under the iron heel of Materialism. 
 It was a calm, still evening. The King entered his 
 garden erect, his dark eyes flashing fire, his nostrils 
 distended, his huge breast heaving with sudden 
 emotion, for before him there suddenly passed a 
 wonderful vision, a pageant in tone, — and he 
 heard for the first time the word Beethoven. 
 
 Those about him saw the strings of the ravana- 
 stron quiver almost to snapping in their terrible ten- 
 sion, and from afar came strange harmonies, ever 
 
 [23] 
 
Btut>es ot %itc 
 
 increasing in their power and beauty, until the crude 
 bow of the King was as a wand of hair. 
 
 At length, into the garden came a young man bear- 
 ing upon his forehead the stamp of the high calling of 
 God. Kneeling at the feet of Ravana, he held up to 
 view two beautiful pieces of wood and a precious vial, 
 whose contents changed color before the gaze like the 
 chameleon, save that vivid reds and browns and amber 
 predominated. King Ravana kissed the forehead of 
 the youth, as with upraised hand he blest him, and be- 
 hold! the whole world awoke to newness of life in 
 that touch of Fatherhood. The trees of the garden 
 suddenly became as a sea of fire, and all creeping 
 things shrank back into hidden recesses, so bright was 
 the face of the Sun. 
 
 " To Thee, Oh Youth," cried the King, raising the 
 weary traveller from the ground, " I commit my trust. 
 Feeble and imperfect as is this thing of wood that I 
 created, it has a living Soul, a perennial Spirit that 
 shall not die. Thou wilt perfect it. Thou alone canst 
 ennoble it. It shall bring together the Nations of the 
 Earth, perfecting them in unbroken Harmony. Take 
 it. Oh my Son, for it is thy Heritage, thy golden 
 Opportunity." 
 
 The youth smiled, but at the first faint tones of the 
 ravanastron, a wave of bitter disappointment took 
 possession of him. He had travelled far and suffered 
 pitifully, striving in the Desert of Waiting to conserve 
 his energies and perfect his ideals. Pained, crushed, 
 discouraged, he impulsively struck upon the strings, 
 smiting them like a living thing, till they snapped in 
 twain; then he dashed the ravanastron upon the 
 ground and there it lay, bruised and spent, among 
 the upturned faces of the flowers. 
 
 P24] 
 
Ube Sona of IRavana 
 
 He turned away to hide his grief and disap- 
 pointment, nor did he look upon the face of Ravana, 
 the mystic, the prophet, the seer, smiling sadly upon 
 him as he passed unattended into the gathering dark- 
 ness. 
 
 A 
 
 Centuries passed, and lo ! on the walls of a hixmble 
 workshop in Cremona, one Easter day, there flashed 
 forth a strange legend. None saw it but a white- 
 haired old man who, holding a perfected instrument 
 in his loving hands, seemed to touch the soul of Ra- 
 vana across the abyss of Time. 
 
 In that hour, Antonio Stradivari at last knew himself 
 to be the Chosen One, and pressing his violin close to 
 his heart, he walked forth into the sunshine to catch 
 the first morning smile of God. 
 
 [25] 
 
^ ^\\nt XB mx Art tmttjout lUttw 
 %l^ atilt na How mttlj0«t (Hob* 
 
 (g0&— 2l0W — Art! 
 ®ijj?0^ tlfr^^ ar0 tlji^ Unks in t\it 
 
 tlfmn 0f tlf^ 
 
 Anl^ tlf0 Btoltn — 3t fe tl|^ 
 1!|0U00 l^auttful 
 
 ®tum-i^0uL 
 
Cbe Perfected Bow 
 
 (JEAN LA GARDE) 
 
 T. XAVER, known to the world as a 
 historic Canadian town which has 
 long since lost its old-time maritime 
 prosperity, when wooden ships sailed 
 proudly out to sea, bringing back in 
 a twelfth month their rich exchange 
 from the Old World, enjoys two 
 distinctions: It has become a popular simimer re- 
 sort even in the face of constant and unremitting 
 opposition on the part of its citizens, and it has been 
 honored by the presence and residence of a virtuoso, 
 of whom, for years, the most eager could find out 
 nothing, and concerning whom there was much spec- 
 ulation. His name was Jean la Garde and, inasmuch 
 as his possessions, inherited from a relative in Mon- 
 treal, enabled him to live in peace and quiet at St. 
 Xaver, disbursing money to the needy and solace to 
 the afflicted, no one bore him ill-will or pried into his 
 life. 
 
 Jean la Garde was long past fifty, prematurely old, 
 with lines of care upon his face and a strange reti- 
 cence in his manner that bespoke the sensitiveness 
 of the dreamer and artist. 
 
 In his little house beside the glittering, shifting Bay 
 that took to its bosom the fair St. Croix and cast it 
 
 [29] 
 
Btut)es ot Xife 
 
 far to Fundy's shores, Jean la Garde played the violin 
 from morn till night, except in those brief intervals 
 when he went to town to buy his provisions and linger 
 awhile at eventide with his " garcon," as he called 
 him, the village barber, whose violinistic zeal made 
 the heart of Jean glad, save when a village dance 
 marred the smooth beauty of his tone and rendered 
 him insensible to the perfect beauty of old Porpora 
 and Corelli and Tartini for a time. 
 
 Poor Pierre! How he had struggled with Baillot, 
 Rode, Viotti and all the rest! Even when Jean was 
 most sanguine, he often failed utterly for want of the 
 stimulus of the outer world, the great world of action, 
 tragedy and event; and alas! he tipped the black 
 bottle until his arm became too unsteady for even the 
 Witches' Dance, or a rollicking hornpipe, 
 
 Jean was patient, kindly, sincere. Besides, he was 
 evidently an aristocrat. Pierre was bourgeois in 
 everything but his love for his violin and his master. 
 He had also that infinite capacity for hero worship 
 which exalts any man, whatever his station. 
 
 Jean la Garde, in turn, loved Pierre like a son, for 
 the fountain springs of the artist's life run deep and, 
 vitiated though they often are, they are fed from a 
 perennial spring. 
 
 "Mon perel " " Mon perel " It was the voice of 
 Pierre at the door of the old block house where lived 
 the virtuoso. 
 
 " I have good news. Thou hast another pupil — 
 a young lady, already a virtuoso. She came to my 
 mother for a room and sup last night. She shuns the 
 hotels. It is not quiet there, and so many people. 
 And now, my friend, thou hast at last a pupil after 
 thine own heart. She has travelled much, played in 
 
 [30] 
 
TLbc iPertecteD 3Bow 
 
 great cities, and would rest here in our beautiful 
 village, to get strong in our good air. Mon Dieul she 
 has thy tone but not thy soul. Thou shalt see. I will 
 bring her." 
 
 With that the enthusiastic Pierre was out of the 
 house before Jean la Garde could utter a word. He 
 stood at his door, stunned, fearful, trembling. Then 
 he looked about him. The room was small, clean, 
 artistic, yet plainly furnished. A few good pictures 
 adorned the walls. An ancient viola da gamba lay 
 silent upon an old mahogany table in the comer. 
 There were manuscripts all around that day, for he had 
 been arranging a wonderful old minuet by Porpora and 
 a sonata by Locatelli, for piano and violin, from the 
 figured bass, and he was eager to finish his work. 
 Pierre had said he would bring the girl. Who might 
 she be? He dared not question her, he who had been 
 so long an outcast from the art-world. She might be 
 some Unk with the Past. She might have lived in 
 Paris — and have heard — God ! he could not bear to 
 lose the respect of these villagers, of Pierre, — it 
 was all he had left, save the comfort of his violin. 
 
 As he stood hesitating and fearful, great beads of 
 perspiration coursed down his face. He clutched at 
 the open door. A faintness was upon him and he saw 
 not. 
 
 " Mon pere ! Mon pere ! She is here — the young 
 lady, the virtuoso, as you call it ; she comes from Paris, 
 from Berlin, from New York — ever5rwhere she has 
 played, but not to you, mon pere, not to you, who are 
 the greatest ! " 
 
 Pierre was panting with excitement as he came up 
 the steps, followed by his guest. 
 
 A girl in years, with a woman's face and vision, 
 
 [31] 
 
]£tu&e0 of xtfe 
 
 stepped over the narrow threshold and greeted Jean la 
 Garde. Her glossy hair was braided in two long, 
 smooth braids around her head. Her forehead was 
 low and wide, and under her dark eyebrows Jean la 
 Garde saw her wondrous deep blue eyes, blue as the 
 sea, as tender as those of a young mother yet as inno- 
 cent as a child's ; and he started, awoke, and saw the 
 Past from which he was ever trying to shrink. 
 
 The face of his guest was the most beautiful he had 
 ever looked upon in its perfect contour. Small as she 
 was, she seemed to carry the impression of nobility, of 
 stature, of strength ; his mind went back to the grand 
 salons and the women who had petted and praised him 
 for his genius, and there stopped, for there was a vision 
 above them all, better, purer, nobler. 
 
 The girl put out her hand appealingly. He did not 
 take it. He only stood there with wide dilated eyes. 
 Once he tried to speak, but the words would not come. 
 
 It was Pierre who at last broke the silence, — 
 Pierre, confused, disappointed, uneasily shifting from 
 one foot to the other. 
 
 " Mon pere," he said softly, " the little lady would 
 hear the great violin." 
 
 Jean la Garde stepped to the door of his tiny bed- 
 room, opened it, hesitated a moment and passed in, 
 leaving the door ajar. 
 
 *' He will play," whispered Pierre, " wait." 
 
 They sat down in the quaint old mahogany chairs, 
 standing like straight-backed thoroughbreds against 
 the white walls. 
 
 Jean la Garde had taken his violin out of its case, 
 and soft tones were already issuing from it, as if im- 
 pelled by a reluctant bow. It was only for a moment. 
 Just as a ray of sunlight darts out of a rift in a cloud, 
 
 [32] 
 
Ubc perfected Bow 
 
 warm, tender, joyous and far-reaching, the violin 
 awoke to life, and Jean la Garde was himself as of 
 old. 
 
 Strange scenes passed before his vision, strange only 
 in point of distance from the present ; throbbing life was 
 before him, and the plaudits of the world for which he 
 had once sacrificed all, intoxicated him, feeding his 
 ambition, whetting his appetite for virtuosity, madden- 
 ing him as of yore. 
 
 The girl listened, but not eagerly. She had heard 
 the greatest. This was indeed virtuosity. The tone 
 was beautiful, but it sounded no new depths in her soul. 
 Suddenly Pierre touched her elbow. 
 
 " Wait," he said softly ; looking at the Crucifix in 
 the far comer of the room, he crossed himself. 
 
 From the next room came that famous old Adagio 
 by Corelli. It seemed as if there were four vioUns 
 playing, each one vying with the others in beauty of 
 tone and perfect intonation. 
 
 " He will play Tartini now," whispered Pierre, as the 
 last tones of the Corelli died away in a cadence of exqui- 
 site beauty. " It is ever so." 
 
 As the noble theme of the G Minor Sonata fell upon 
 her ears, the girl started, awoke, almost crying out in 
 her joy. Her mother had played that air into her very 
 soul in childhood, played it until it had almost driven 
 her to madness, and then she had kissed a picture in a 
 locket that she wore close to her heart. The girl had 
 never asked a question then, but when, as the years 
 passed and she, too, played the work, she learned that 
 it was based upon the old story of the desertion of 
 Queen Dido by iEneas at Carthage, she began to ask 
 herself if perhaps her mother too had been deserted. 
 But she put the idea out of her mind. Her mother had 
 
 [33] 
 
BtuDes of %itc 
 
 said once — only once, — " He who taught me this 
 Sonata loved me — he was not to blame. It was the 
 violin and the bow that did all the mischief." 
 
 As Jean la Garde finished those noble chords that 
 precede the joyous optimism of the finale, a string 
 snapped. Pierre uttered a groan of disappointment. 
 
 " He will play no more," he said discontentedly. 
 
 " So it ended for me," they heard the player say to 
 himself. 
 
 In the outer room he took them by the hand, simply 
 saying, " You will come another day. I will play the 
 other Tartini." 
 
 Pierre kissed his hand. The girl looked into the 
 face of the great artist earnestly, almost pleadingly. 
 She had begun to feel the spell of his art. As they 
 turned to go Jean la Garde suddenly leaned against the 
 door for support. He seemed about to fall. 
 
 " Mon DIeu, the great violin ! " cried Pierre, spring- 
 ing to his side. " What if it had fallen ! " 
 
 " It might be better so," answered Jean la Garde, as 
 he touched the hand of his friend, for there were times 
 when his soul cried out so for human sympathy, that 
 he was almost mad. When the sea failed and the vio- 
 lin, there was Pierre, the bourgeois, the plodder, the 
 artisan, with his great heart. The grasp of his hand 
 and the sound of his voice were as manna to this man, 
 who carried the tragedy of his life like a mill-stone 
 about his neck, saving him from himself — that nether 
 self, ruined, desolate, forgotten by friends, lost to the 
 world of Art, lost almost to God — save that in his 
 manhood there still lurked some strange instinct that 
 led him nightly to the Crucifix. 
 
 [34] 
 
Ube perfected Bow 
 
 n 
 
 Nearly a month had passed. Every day Mile. Marie, 
 as the villagers had begun to call her, came to the 
 house of Jean la Garde for instruction. He would 
 have it so, and she, eager, joyous, discerning, saw that 
 growth in her art-life meant spiritual awakening for 
 the silent man in the block house. They played the 
 Spohr Duets to Pierre and he Ustened gravely, but his 
 heart was for Paganini, so in a vagrant mood, his 
 teacher would close with the "Witches' Dance or one of 
 the Caprices. There were days and days v/hen Nardini, 
 CorelH, Veracini and LocatelU reigned. Mile. Marie 
 listened eagerly, for, in the traditional rendering of 
 these works, she felt the spirit of one who, of his school, 
 may have been the greatest, — old Viotti, from whose 
 followers Jean la Garde had received instruction. She 
 dared not play the modems to him, for he Uved in that 
 classic world made precious to him by long silence and 
 deep meditation. 
 
 One day she brought him the Tschaikowsky Con- 
 certo. Though he had never heard it, he played Uke a 
 master till he came to the second movement — the 
 Canzonetta. Then he looked puzzled and asked her 
 to play the piano part. They played it over and over, 
 he seeming never to tire of it. At last he placed his 
 violin in its case and said hoarsely, 
 
 " This man must have suffered more than any 
 man in the world save one perhaps — " 
 
 There was a long silence. Then the girl placed her 
 hand on his arm, with a rare sweet gesture born of dis- 
 cerning womanhood and deepest sympathy. 
 
 " We suffer," said she, " that we may have some- 
 
 [35] 
 
BtuOes ot Xite 
 
 thing more to give to the world about us. Not as we 
 live do we play, but as the divine in us would have 
 us to live. All that we have done in the past is for- 
 gotten, atoned for, forgiven by the dear God above. 
 I care not to be great, as the world calls greatness. I 
 would rather be a blameless artisan like Pierre, than 
 sound one note that does not express a lofty ideal; 
 and yet — and yet — I am not ready, not strong 
 enough nor noble enough yet for the mission — I wish 
 to help people to live better through my art. You 
 must help me, my teacher, you are so much greater 
 than I." 
 
 The man shrank back as if stung. 
 
 " Child ! " he cried passionately, " you cannot know 
 what it means to have sacrificed all that is worthy 
 and beautiful in life to cold relentless Ambition. Go 
 — go — I may say what I would not. Jean la Garde 
 is an outcast, and his art, crying out from that Strad, 
 leaping from the hair of that Tourte bow, is but the 
 wreck of a life — the bitter mockery of God's judg- 
 ment ! " 
 
 The girl looked toward the overhanging Crucifix 
 and laid her hand in his. She was not afraid. 
 
 "Jean la Garde," she said softly, "God's love can 
 heal. God's mercy never fails. Life is not all lost 
 to you. You have awakened my soul to love and 
 serve Art better. The God in you is not dead ! " 
 
 She was gone. Jean la Garde knelt before the 
 Crucifix. When, at last, he arose, he had begim life 
 anew. 
 
 [36] 
 
Ube pcrtecteJ) Bow 
 
 in 
 
 That night there fell upon the coast of New Bruns- 
 wick one of those terrific and cruel storms that are 
 the terror of the mariner. Jean la Garde had always 
 loved such nights. He revelled in them, sometimes 
 playing to their wild inspiration until long into the 
 night. Somehow they had seemed to free his spirit. 
 To-night he played as he seldom played, wild impro- 
 visations, surging with the memory of his past life, 
 bare, helpless, yet defiant. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. A hooded figure 
 stepped upon the worn threshold, but the man heard 
 not. Suddenly there was a sound, long, booming, 
 ominous, from across the Bay. Had any soul dared 
 to leave the harbor in that awful night? Jean la 
 Garde stepped to the door. There was one long note 
 of distress followed by another and another. 
 
 Mile. Marie touched his arm. 
 
 "Jean la Garde," she cried, hoarsely, "it is the 
 steamer from St. John. Pierre and the Mayor are on 
 board. They are six hours late. The wharves are 
 full of our good people, but no one dares go out in 
 such a night." 
 
 Again there sounded that ominous note across the 
 Bay. It seemed closer — nearer to the sand-bar that 
 stretched sinister and treacherous out into the mouth 
 of the St. Croix. 
 
 " Play, Jean la Garde," she cried, " for God's sake, 
 play! I will pray for all His creatures who are in 
 peril, — Pierre, thy friend, and the good mayor, and 
 many others that are out upon the sea in this awful 
 night. There are beacon lights everywhere. All the 
 
 [37] 
 
Btu^es of %iU 
 
 town is awake. Play, Jean la Garde, we can do noth- 
 ing there !" 
 
 Hours passed. Jean la Garde sent up his prayer to 
 God, and God heard it. He played as never before. 
 The girl knelt long before the Crucifix. Ere the morn- 
 ing light broke upon St. Xaver, Pierre and the good 
 Mayor, storm-spent but alive, were safe in their beds. 
 The beacon lights had not failed. 
 
 Into the heart of Jean la Garde had come a strange yet 
 perfect peace. He had told Mile. Marie the story of his 
 life, and he had learned from her Ups and from the 
 locket that she wore at her neck that she was indeed 
 the child of that other Marie whom for fame he had 
 long ago abandoned. To his crushed and bleeding 
 spirit it was Uke a heavenly message to hear that she 
 never had reproached him though she never spoke his 
 name, even on her deathbed. One thing only had 
 Mile. Marie asked him sternly, " Did my mother ever 
 have a wedding ring ? " 
 
 " We were married," said he, " at Bordeaux. I 
 pawned the ring at Monte Carlo. That was when the 
 curse began." 
 
 In the gray morning light the two sat hand in hand 
 before the Crucifix. Neither spoke. All wounds were 
 healed. Both were thinking of the great work before 
 them, the work of love and service, — the only expia- 
 tion for the Past. Pierre found them thus a little later, 
 and they told him all. 
 
 1381 
 
Zbc perfectet) Bow 
 
 IV 
 
 It was a beautiful day in early September, cool, 
 vigorous, and prophetic of that early Autiunn which 
 creeps upon us unawares at St. Xaver. The green and 
 dank old wharves seemed to have taken on a holiday 
 appearance. The streets of the quiet old town were 
 alive with curiosity-stricken citizens and visitors, the 
 last of the summer colony. 
 
 That morning the old block house was closed and 
 barred. Jean la Garde and Mile. Marie had told the 
 villagers that they were father and daughter — that 
 was all. The remainder of the story lay safe with 
 Pierre. They were going out into the great world 
 again to warm and comfort and bless it through Art. 
 The sorrows of their lives had deepened their poten- 
 tiality. Good- will and loving words followed them out 
 of the harbor and into the unknown future. 
 
 From time to time there came news to St. Xaver of 
 them, stories that Pierre, in his simple faith and loving 
 remembrance, treasured like household Penates. Mile. 
 Marie was playing upon the famous Strad, with the still 
 more famous Tourte bow ; the soul of the violin and the 
 soul of Jean la Garde were shriven, consecrated, per- 
 fected. Wherever they went — the girl, the man and 
 the violin, there came perfect peace to all who listened ; 
 and when at rare intervals they played together, people 
 bowed their heads and wept. 
 
 Thus do men expiate the errors of their youth, look- 
 ing into the clear depths of a woman's soul for a reflec- 
 tion of the Christ. 
 
 [39 
 
®I}^ Olruribl^ 0f Art 
 
Cbe Crucible of JTrt 
 
 |HE was a petite, fragile-looking crea- 
 ture with great brown eyes that 
 dreamed and dreamed until the Pro- 
 fessor had to rap on her violin sharply 
 with his bow, to bring her back to this 
 mundane sphere long enough to play 
 her Rode Caprices intelHgently. The 
 other students smiled, for the " Amerikanerin," with 
 her Uttle shoes, her wonderful golden hair and her 
 flashes of strange melancholy, relieved by an occa- 
 sional brilUant and vivacious rendering of the Faust 
 Fantasie, in which the Professor took great delight, 
 was a puzzle and a curiosity to them. Herr Nussbaum 
 stroked his feeble, tow-colored moustache, too short to 
 curl at the ends in the KaiserUch fashion, and won- 
 dered why his own masterly rendition of the Faust 
 failed to elicit applause and awaken enthusiasm. 
 Fraulein Wittig pursed her rosy lips, stuck both fat 
 hands on her spacious hips, and sighed. Sometimes 
 she even went so far as to yawn when the " Ameri- 
 kanerin " played, but these occasions were rare, for 
 the Professor had keen eyes, and he disliked jealousy 
 of any kind. 
 
 But there was a new element, — a strange new at- 
 mosphere of comradeship in the Studio, which the 
 class could not understand. The " Amerikanerin " 
 had resented a sarcastic remark made by the Professor, 
 and had actually espoused the cause of another girl 
 with vehemence, accusing him openly of being unjust 
 
 [43] 
 
jEtuOes ot Xite 
 
 and capricious. The German boys and girls sat fairly 
 trembling with excitement as the colloquy progressed, 
 not daring to raise their eyes from the floor, — for had 
 he not called them " Dummkopf " and many other vitu- 
 perous epithets these many years? And yet, when not 
 irritated, he was so kind and generous! One could 
 hardly believe that an American girl with little talent, 
 no pedigree and no dowry, could actually break down 
 the barriers of form, and presume to criticise a dis- 
 tinguished artist. 
 
 When all the other students had departed, the girl 
 waited, for she knew she had hiu"t him. 
 
 " I did not mean to be discourteous," she said sim- 
 ply; then, like a lightning flash, her whole attitude 
 changed. Her breath came quickly, her hands 
 clenched behind her back and her voice trembled. 
 
 " I cannot play to you any more," she passionately 
 exclaimed, " I cannot play even if the other students 
 are absent. I don't know why. It is a something 
 that seems to stifle all the musical expression in my 
 soul. I am going to give up my lessons." 
 
 The man's face changed. Deep lines of sorrow 
 came into it, and his lips trembled under his mous- 
 tache, but he did not speak. Once he coughed slightly, 
 as he fumbled among some sheets of music; then, 
 without word or warning, he turned and left the room. 
 
 The girl waited — waited for half an hour, but he 
 did not return. At length she went to his desk and 
 wrote : "No one has ever believed in me as you have. 
 It meant so much to me. Forgive me if I seemed dis- 
 respectful, I am only an American girl — crude at 
 best — and, you see, I didn't know — " 
 
 Here the letter ceased. She did not even sign her 
 name, hardly reahzing that her informal manner of 
 
 [44] 
 
Ube Crucible of art 
 
 expression was still more of a breach of etiquette, and 
 then, softly closing the door, she passed out into the 
 street just as the lights were beginning to shed a soft 
 glow over the glistening snow of the December 
 night. 
 
 A lazy cabman passed by, his brr-r-r sounding in 
 her ears like a faint buzzing sound. Her senses were 
 bentunbed, her whole frame quivering with pain. 
 She had come to Berlin alone, unfriended, unwarned, 
 innocent, sanguine because wholly ignorant of the 
 great world of Art and the long weary route by which, 
 at last, one gains recognition and distinction. 
 
 The first few months had almost killed her, so great 
 was her loneliness and disappointment. She had, like 
 many another American girl, learned just where she 
 stood in relation to Art and, as the days passed and her 
 own crudities became more and more apparent to her, 
 her very soul shrank back and her spirits sank. Poor 
 child! She was tasting the first bitter experience of 
 life and study abroad, and in that great city of Berlin, 
 she had not one friend to whom she could go for com- 
 fort. Not one, did I say? Yes, there was one. The 
 Professor had understood the longing and the pain. 
 He had put his hand on her golden head and begged 
 her to take courage. He had believed in her — yes, 
 he had even taken the trouble to hunt her up and to tell 
 her, with all his fine delicacy and manliness, why she 
 must put herself under the protection of some honest 
 American or German woman, while pursuing her stud- 
 ies in the great Capital. He had secured a place for 
 her in Frau Kessler's Pension, and, when she had con- 
 fessed how little money she had for her expenses and 
 her study, he had written a long letter to her Uncle 
 who, of all her family, believed in her future. Yes, he 
 
 [45] 
 
BtuOes ot %itc 
 
 it was who, with a nature none too calm and nerves 
 none too controlled, had given her the very best that 
 was in him, striving to work out in her his own ideals 
 of Art. He could make his pupils suffer sometimes, 
 and he did, but never once had he been unkind to her 
 or belittled her in the presence of the other members 
 of his class. 
 
 And now she had hurt him — perhaps lost him by 
 her ill-advised remarks. She fairly tottered as she 
 reached the Pension on Potsdamer Strasse, at the 
 door of which stood Johann Kessler. He had just 
 lighted his cigar and seemed somewhat surprised to 
 see her. 
 
 " Out late again? " he said reproachfully. 
 
 " Don't speak to me, Johann !" cried the girl, with a 
 quivering voice, " I have offended the Professor. I am 
 just ill over it and so discouraged! " 
 
 Johann threw away his cigar in sheer surprise and 
 alarm. He was the Professor's pupil, and a " star 
 pupil " too. How could he endure the thought of not 
 being admitted into a secret! His pronounced Ger- 
 man curiosity was not proof against the temptation to 
 excuse himself from an evening at Frau von Borge's, 
 across the street, although he knew that the young 
 von Borge girls would be fascinating and the beer of 
 the best. "Was not the " Amerikanerin " under his 
 mother's protection? And was she not in his quartet 
 class? The Professor favored her, too, and who would 
 not espouse the cause of a favorite? Johann thrust 
 his hand through his tawny hair till it stood straight 
 and bristling, then he put his violin carefully in a cor- 
 ner, and having offered his colleague the most com- 
 fortable chair in the big parlor, stammered out : 
 
 "The Professor! The Professor! How could you 
 
 [46] 
 
TLbc Crucible ot Brt 
 
 provoke him, Fraulein, he so kind and good a man and 
 so much your friend ! " 
 
 The young man had evidently forgotten a recent vi- 
 tuperous epithet which the Professor had bestowed 
 upon him when he had played the Devil's Trill Sonata 
 in a very unsatisfactory manner, but German boys 
 never mind wordy castigations. 
 
 The girl sat silently weeping in the big old-fashioned 
 chair in the comer. Friendless, crushed, totally un- 
 strung by the events of the afternoon, Johann's rough 
 boyish sympathy seemed to appeal to her. To-morrow 
 he might again annoy her by his steady stare at the 
 dinner table, and his ill-expressed compliments might 
 lead her to again poke fun at him, but to-night she 
 seemed to be nearer to him than ever before. 
 
 Good Frau Kessler entered as they sat there talking 
 it all over ; she took the trembling girl to her big warm 
 German heart, imprinting a kiss upon her white fore- 
 head, and soothing her as if she had been a little child. 
 
 " Poor little Liebchen ! Poor, poor Kleine ! " the 
 good woman murmured, as she patted the golden head 
 and looked into the tearful eyes. " It is a hard road — 
 the road to Art. I tell Johann so, but he will pursue 
 it, and some day, who knows, he may become the Con- 
 certmeister — " 
 
 " Hush mother, I am only a clod, a mere Kiiastler 
 of low degree," replied Johann, blushing to the very 
 roots of his tawny hair. 
 
 The girl rose, and stretched out her hands appeal- 
 ingly. 
 
 " I have no right, dear friends," she said simply, 
 " to burden you with my griefs. It is selfish. For- 
 give me. I know I am over-sensitive, careless and 
 strange to you. I know that I am presuming when 
 
 [47] 
 
]£tu&es ot %ifc 
 
 one considers the dignity of the Professor. I am not 
 worthy to be in Berlin, — but oh, I have come to love 
 my violin so much! " 
 
 A burst of emotion seemed to overpower her. As 
 she turned to leave the room she staggered, tripped, 
 and fell headlong against the broad oak panel of the 
 heavy door. When they Ufted her from the floor, she 
 was unconscious. 
 
 For many days and weeks she lay ill in her white bed 
 that had been divested of its German feather mattress 
 above and below, for she wished to feel herself at home 
 in America, she said, when she began to notice people 
 and things again. During her illness, her mind always 
 wandered back to that last day at the Professor's 
 house. Good Frau Kessler nursed her like a mother, 
 and Johann bore many messages of cheer from the 
 Professor. 
 
 She seemed to rally slowly. She had long been over- 
 worked, and hard study had taken from her whatever 
 nervous force she had once possessed. 
 
 The Professor, busy as he was, wrote many long let- 
 ters to the dear ones in America. These were so full 
 of hope, and brought such cheerful answers, that the 
 girl herself began to take courage. 
 
 In the long August afternoons she was able to drive 
 in the Tiergarten with the Professor and his sister, 
 but her heart yearned so for the homeland that one day, 
 when they were quite alone, she put her small white 
 hand in that of her teacher and said, 
 
 " I know I shall never be the same again. I am 
 changed. I fear that I can never play now as I once 
 hoped that I could. You have all been so good to me, 
 but I must go home. I can, perhaps, teach there and 
 do some good, but I am going to ask you now to for- 
 
 [48] 
 
Ube Crucible ot Hrt 
 
 give me for the pain I once caused you. I can never 
 forget it." 
 
 The Professor, visibly moved, replied in a voice that 
 she had never heard before, so gentle wsls it, 
 
 " I beg that you will never mention this. I am the 
 real cause. I have suffered. I can never make 
 amends — " 
 
 She looked into his face, and there she saw his great 
 soul and something more that made her strong — so 
 strong that she felt as if she could conquer every ob- 
 stacle in the world. Instinctively she put her hand in 
 his, and thus they rode through the Tiergarten, as the 
 setting sun cast its benediction over the earth. 
 
 That night the Professor sat a long time smoking 
 fiercely, in his quaint old garden in Charlottenburg. 
 Then he and his sister played an old Sonata by Loca- 
 telli, for they never omitted their evening of music to- 
 gether, except in the stress of winter concerts. 
 
 " Mariechen," said the Professor, " I am old and 
 gray — you know that, but after all these years of wait- 
 ing, I have found a bird for the nest. You know that 
 in early manhood it was necessary for me to renounce 
 all that the right kind of man holds dear in life, in order 
 to attain something in Art. It has brought much joy 
 — this Art — but I have always missed something in 
 my Ufe, I could hardly tell what it was; but lately I 
 know — I know, Mariechen ! " 
 
 He bowed his head and wept; the tears were the 
 tears of a great man facing a great joy. 
 
 Mariechen put her hand on his big shaggy head, and 
 then she bent down and kissed him. 
 
 " Duchen, duchen," she whispered, calling him once 
 more by the endearing term of childhood, " I have 
 been praying for this all my life. Hast thou not sur- 
 
 [49] 
 
lEtu&es of Xtfe 
 
 mised it ? She will bring joy and peace, beauty and 
 youth to our home — the * Amerikanerin,' and who 
 but I could have known it all the time ! " 
 
 When the Professor gave a farewell concert in the 
 Singakademie, preparatory to undertaking his first 
 American tour, those who had heard him play for 
 more than twenty years declared that he had never re- 
 vealed as he did that night, his possibilities as an artist. 
 Mariechen sat there in the audience beaming with 
 pride, love and happiness, — and the " Amerikan- 
 erin ? " There was just one shadow on her face. 
 She had seen Frau Kessler come in alone. Johann 
 was not there. He, too, was being tried in the cruci- 
 ble of Art. He, too, must suffer. That night she 
 wrote to an old friend in America : 
 
 " We are coming home, and I shall have much to tell 
 you. I now know what it means to become an artist, 
 
 — to be tried in the fire and come out victorious 
 through much suffering. Do you recall that George 
 Eliot's Consuelo pictured Art with a crown of thorns ? 
 Oh, how we grow through pain ! And how we radiate 
 strength when we come out of the crucible perfected 
 as far as our natures may become perfected in this life. 
 I told you once that if I gave up my Art, you should 
 have my violin, but I cannot part with it, for it is dear, 
 
 — it, too, has suffered. If you could hear its message 
 to-day, it would say, * There is no Art without Love, 
 and no Love without God. God — Love — Art ! 
 These three are the links in the chain of the 
 Perfected Life. And the Violin — it is the House 
 Beautiful where dwells my Twin-Soul ! ' " 
 
 [50] 
 
X 
 
 Co my Ualentine 
 
 am lljtttkutg 0f ®I|r^ tn-JJag, mg Uabttttm, 
 tljutktttg Ijarb btraua^ ottj^ra ar? Hritbutg 
 tl|0tr tokens of aflTi^rttntu 3( J>0 ttot it^^Ji 
 t0 turit^ ®I|f0 a Bp^rtal grp^ting, fnr ®I|ou Ijajst 
 ten uritlj m^ ronBtawtlg for mang para, — b^ 
 % fir^atti?, an % a^a, ut atrattg? Ia«J>a a«l> ru^tt 
 tfl tl|0 (iaaia nf % i^a^rt nf Uttaattafi^Ii i?at». 
 HljatPtipr 0f jng or aurr^aa tlyprr ta I^ft for xub 
 m ltf0 ta Unk^Ji until ©Ij??. Aa a mo%r rl;?rtal|pa 
 I|^r uttbont rl|tl&, ao hn 3 rlj^rialj ®l;r?, for ®J|Ott 
 art mij primal Olaparttg for Affrrtton atrogglUtg 
 to rata? m? to tl|? Jitguttij of ©r«^ Homanljooli. 
 ®n-Jiag ©Ijou ioat sttm mor? pr^riooa to m^ tlyan 
 of gore. 3 mt ®I|?e ttt tl|? Iiapp^ far^a of rljilhriett 
 anb m tljf am^^t amtl^a of m^tt m\h mom^n ml|o 
 tt^th ttjf ataff to Qtxxht tIjFtr fatlutg footatppa. 
 31 a00 ©It^r bg tt|0 be!iat5? of pattt, g^a, S I|aof 
 fbllom^b ®lf^^ almoat to tl|? l^all^g of tl|? i^Ijaiiotii 
 of i^atli. grt maa 3 not rl|tlb5. 0^, ®tjon l^antt- 
 fnl ^pmt of P^r^nntal Soo^, to-Jiag 2( gr^^t OI!|p^ 
 aa n^tt^r b^for?, brrana? . at laat, 3 r^altz? tlyat 
 2It|on art non? otlji^r ttjan mg ^x^Bt ^tit 
 
Co my Ualentine 
 
 HE was a New England woman, and 
 that generally means that one is 
 ^ reared in a somewhat stereotyped 
 way, with too little poetry in the en- 
 vironment. I can recall her as she 
 sat in front of me at church, her 
 back comb set at exactly the same 
 angle it had assumed for twenty years, her gray hair 
 plain, precise, prim, scanty — as if the head it cov- 
 ered were worn with the drudgery of Life. But she 
 never called it drudgery. 
 
 Oh, how I longed for her sunshine and her faith in 
 the long years of our friendship! She was my best 
 friend, and that counts in New England, but I cannot 
 recall any real love-token that ever passed our lips. 
 She understood and I, in turn, felt her living, breath- 
 ing, human, sensitive womanhood all the time about 
 me, strengthening me and shaming mine own poor 
 selfishness and earthiness. I had seen so much more 
 of the world than she had that she depended upon me 
 for breadth of vision in things musical and mental — 
 never spiritual, for she was my uplift. 
 
 You will be surprised when I tell you that she 
 never once expressed a wish for a larger life than 
 that which came to her in her little country town. 
 The " old people " needed her, and the " young people " 
 needed lessons, — that was enough for her to know. 
 Duty was the first tenet of her life, but it was loving 
 
 [S3] 
 
lEtuOcs ot %iU 
 
 duty, and God blessed and crowned her work a hundred 
 fold each year. 
 
 I recall my first music lessons with her. There 
 seemed to be a faint, almost imperceptible essence in 
 the room; she never failed to carry it wherever she 
 went. It was the aroma of spirituality which always 
 accompanies the handmaids of God in their cease- 
 less service to the children of the rank and file. 
 And I have known rare maternal instincts in these 
 frail, hard-worked, thin-featured women who serve 
 and yearn over youth with a devotion seldom equalled 
 save in the annals of martyrdom, for Maternity is not 
 merely childbearing, but childrearing, and Love is not 
 so physical a thing that it needs to limit itself to our 
 own flesh and blood relations. 
 
 One day in midwinter, when the snow lay glisten- 
 ing on the ground and the sleigh bells tinkled in the 
 still air their first belated welcome to rosy and eager 
 youth, she came to me to minister and to comfort, 
 for I had been very ill. I forgot, in her presence, 
 the long days of pain and nights of fretful moaning 
 over the loss of concerts and lessons. Then it was 
 that she told me how she had saved, planned and 
 sacrificed, that she might go to the city and study 
 with one of whom we think with silent reverence, for 
 his wonderful work is ended. It was in his presence, 
 she said, that she had learned the true meaning of 
 Art to the toiler and breadwinner. How her face 
 glowed as she related how he taught ! 
 
 " My poor fingers," said she, " have never been 
 clever. I am not gifted with executive power. I 
 had almost believed myself a mere machine, had it 
 not been that I felt the impulse to prepare young 
 hearts and brains for Life as well as for Art. I 
 
 [54l 
 
Zo /IDs IDalentfne 
 
 seemed so weak and helpless in the presence of his 
 great gifts. But, as he sat improvising, or working 
 on some new composition, his keen eyes fixed on 
 mine with a subtle kind of mystery in them, he told 
 me that the most powerful forces for Art in America 
 were often found in communities where one drew a 
 small circle and concentrated one's brightest and 
 best upon a few individuals. To influence the ideals 
 of a little town, said he, meant infinitely more than 
 the transient fame of mere virtuosity. I began to 
 feel strong in my small sphere, striving in the studio, 
 the church and the home, to carry a living message 
 through Art to every human soul. Before that I had 
 seemed but a plain. New England woman with only a 
 feeble imagination and fewer gifts. He awoke in me 
 all that lay dormant; the impulse to serve more 
 truly and acceptably the least of God's children. 
 And, best of all, he said to me that if God had denied 
 me Genius, he had given me a great craving for 
 Knowledge, and a love for all things beautiful. 
 
 " My soul now cried out in ecstasy at the thought 
 of powers and possibilities I had hitherto not realized. 
 I silently thanked God for the inspiration of those 
 lessons to which I had looked forward so long and 
 eagerly. I came home and served. The creating of 
 ideals seemed to energize my vagrant faculties. There 
 were some dark days, but he said it would all come 
 out right, and it did." 
 
 Her simple yet eloquent story aroused in me genu- 
 ine enthusiasm for her Ufe and appreciation of her 
 work; in the months that followed, when again I 
 took up the thread of life in a great city, I seemed to 
 be less restless, less impatient for the mere plaudits 
 of the passing throng who to-day extol and to-morrow 
 
 [55] 
 
]Etu&es of Xite 
 
 are indifferent in the light of a new star or a fresh 
 sensation. 
 
 Life began gradually to mean more to me than 
 mere pleasure-giving. My soul cried out to serve a 
 few even as she had done so faithfully and so well. 
 
 After a time I went abroad, and I saw no more of 
 her for many months, but I afterwards learned that 
 my letters, written in the feverish life of a great for- 
 eign city, were treasured and eagerly read to her 
 pupils. I heard that the long, severe winter had 
 been a great tax on her strength, and that her friends 
 feared she would be obliged to go away for a season 
 of rest. The next year there came still more dubious 
 reports of her health and then, at last, the news that 
 the dear hands were silent forever. It seemed to me 
 that there was a great void in my life, a great aching 
 void that could never be filled. Had she left me no 
 word — no message of joy or peace, no uplift for the 
 silent years to come ? 
 
 One morning in February I arose pale and listless, 
 jaded by the opera of the night before. There came 
 a knock at my door. 
 
 " You have forgotten, Liebchen," cried the Mos- 
 kowski Girl, " that it is St. Valentine^s Day. Look, 
 look! and one for you from America." 
 
 I took the package in my hand and I thought, as 
 with eager trembling fingers I opened it, that some 
 delicate and almost forgotten aroma emanated from 
 its folds. The Moskowski Girl had a dozen love 
 tokens in her hand, but she did not show them to 
 me. 
 
 " Poor Liebchen," she whispered, as she saw my 
 tears, " poor, poor Liebchen, there is, after all, only 
 one America and that seems so far away." 
 
 [56] 
 
Uo fl&^ IDalenttne 
 
 She went out softly and I was alone — no, not 
 alone, for the message lay on my desk. It was a 
 piece of illuminated cardboard on which were written 
 these lines : 
 
 ©a M^ labntttt?. 
 
 I am thinking of Thee to-day, my Valentine, think- 
 ing hard because others are sending their tokens of 
 affection. I do not need to write Thee a special 
 greeting, for Thou hast been with me constantly for 
 many years, — by the fireside, on the sea, in strange 
 lands and even to the Oasis of the Desert of Un- 
 satisfied Desire. Whatever of joy or success there is 
 left for me in Life is linked with Thee. As a mother 
 cherishes her unborn child, so do I cherish Thee, for 
 Thou are my primal Capacity for Affection strug- 
 gling to raise me to the true dignity of Womanhood. 
 To-day Thou dost seem more precious to me than of 
 yore. I see Thee in the happy faces of children and 
 in the sweet smiles of men and women who need the 
 Staff to guide their failing footsteps. I see Thee by 
 the bedside of pain, yea, I have followed Thee almost 
 to the Valley of the Shadow of Death, yet was I not 
 chilled. Oh, Thou Beautiful Spirit of Perennial 
 Love, to-day I greet Thee as never before, because, at 
 last, I realize that Thou art none other than my 
 Highest Self. 
 
 There were bleeding hearts on the page, but I 
 hardly saw them. There, in her loved hand, shone 
 out the message that should go down the years like 
 
 [57] 
 
3etu&es ot Xite 
 
 a benediction. There was a letter, too, written by 
 her loving hand ; how eloquent its timbre ! 
 
 " Dear One," it said, " I am going away where Art 
 lives and God loves. I would have put off the jour- 
 ney at first. There seemed so much to be done 
 here. But the time has come, I know. I am send- 
 ing my Valentine. I, who have so long served Art 
 and my neighbor's children, have at last to let go my 
 hold upon Life. You, Little One, must take hold of 
 the chain. You will carry out my ideals with your 
 fresh young soul and your wide experience. Even if 
 you can give only a part of yourself to my garden, I 
 want you — and you alone. I have sent many Val- 
 entines. This is the only one I ever sent to myself 
 — my Better Self. It is yours, for you are to be my 
 Other Self, the one who will carry out my ideals, — 
 the first child of my long ministry." 
 
 " Professor," I said, " I am going back to America. 
 There is a place there that needs me sorely. I will 
 do what I can for it and try to stimulate some nobler 
 soul to do its work even better than I can. After all, 
 the concert life is not the most satisfying. I must 
 serve the people who made it possible for me to come 
 to Europe for study, and they need me now." 
 
 " Little One," answered the Professor, " you will 
 always carry a great message. Remember that the 
 gate is open and every summer, when the rest season 
 comes, you are to sojourn with us. There are many 
 things of which we will speak not found in sonata or 
 fugue. The woman who wrote that Valentine was 
 on the heights; we are only scaling the sides of the 
 
 [58] 
 
XTo /ID^ Dalenttne 
 
 mountain. Did you see the sunset last night? 
 They say that St. Hedwig's had a halo around its 
 spire, — an optical illusion, of course, but they 
 called it a Halo. I wish we had been there to see it, 
 you and I, but the Valentine lady — she would have 
 had no need of it." 
 
 [S9l 
 
' - i^-r I • ^H^^ 
 
 Ibear se, 
 
 f0*ra*ell 
 
 Piu adagio. 
 
 dim. 
 
 ITS * ta * 611 beat . . . wbat tbe ILorO speaft=etbl 
 
Hstrtd 
 
 STOOD leaning over the railing while 
 the stevedores on the steamship 
 Aragon were throwing great bales of 
 cotton into the hold, accompanying 
 their task with a monotonous song, 
 the words of which soimded strangely 
 in my ears. 
 
 " Papa," said a child's voice, " I heard them say 
 * Down on the Swanee,' and then they threw the cot- 
 ton way over in that corner. Now listen, they are cry- 
 ing * Back of the graveyard * — see ! there it goes, 
 papa, over on the other side of the ship. Isn't it funny 
 that the negroes have names for every part of the 
 ship? " 
 
 " Who told you that, Astrid? " asked a tall, blue- 
 eyed Wotan, as he bent over the child and kissed her 
 forehead. 
 
 " Why, the engineer that carried me in his arms 
 when mamma was sick, — my * chief,'" answered the 
 little one. 
 
 The family were evidently returning from the South, 
 where, as their subsequent conversation revealed, they 
 had gone for the child's health. 
 
 Quaint Charleston offered no real pleasure to them. 
 Astrid was no better. 
 
 Oh, how I longed to right things for this great strong 
 man who sang out so lustily with the stevedores, and 
 who was as tender as a woman toward his little girl. 
 
 [63] 
 
Btu^es of Xifc 
 
 That he was an opera singer I did not doubt, for 
 he walked up and down the deck, his book in hand, 
 humming a line or two, and smiling back at his 
 little one, as she lay propped up in her steamer 
 chair. 
 
 "Well, how is Astrid today?" I heard a fine manly 
 voice exclaim, and the chief engineer, blue-eyed, gen- 
 uinely honest and unmistakably English, leaned over 
 the child and ran his fingers through her golden 
 curls. 
 
 " Very well, thank you, * chief,* " Astrid replied. 
 Then with naive innocence she continued, while her 
 little hand stole into his big tanned palm, " Haven't 
 you any little girls at home? " 
 
 " Nary a one," replied her friend, with a blush under 
 his tan, " I'm a bachelor." 
 
 " Poor man, — poor, poor * chief,' " the little girl 
 soothingly murmured, as she patted his hand. " Some- 
 time you will have some little girls of your own. Papa 
 says one little girl is worth a whole bagful of money." 
 
 " That's so, Astrid," the young " chief " answered 
 earnestly, " a little girl like you is worth a fortime, and 
 some day you'll earn a fortune for your father and 
 mother, and then we'll all go to Europe, — just think 
 of it!" 
 
 He laughed a jolly rollicking laugh, and lifting 
 the child tenderly in his strong arms, the two went 
 up and down the deck singing snatches of The Elijah 
 and The Messiah, for had not the ** chief" been a choir 
 boy in England, and had not Astrid heard her father 
 and mother sing from all the greatest operas and ora- 
 torios all her short life? Brief as that life had been, 
 she had grown so wonderfully in mind and heart that 
 the frail little body just seemed to be shrinking away. 
 
 [64] 
 
Hstrit) 
 
 They tried to check her precocity, but it was so nec- 
 essary to her being that at last they let her grow, and 
 she grew toward the Infinite every day. When she 
 sang, or when the tiny fingers worked out a theme at 
 the piano, and her big earnest eyes looked into your 
 soul, you knew — everyone knew — that Astrid had 
 been initiated into the deepest problems of God*s 
 paternity. 
 
 When, at last, the two friends discovered the fair- 
 haired Norwegian mother, with her large propor- 
 tions, yet refined and spiritual face, beaming with love 
 and tenderness, as she came up the gang plank after a 
 brief shopping trip, like two amiable children they sat 
 down in the steamer chair and ate chocolates and bon- 
 bons in absolute content. 
 
 " Sweet mamma, let's sing * Lift Thine Eyes.* Don't 
 you hear the negroes singing? If we sing too, they 
 may work better," said the child, when, at last, the 
 sweets were eaten. 
 
 " We must do all she asks," the mother whispered 
 to the young Englishman, " all she asks." 
 
 A wave of pain crossed her usually placid face. 
 Astrid was her all. They had told her in Jacksonville 
 — the doctors in New York, also — that there was no 
 hope. She prayed to God that it might not be true 
 that the life that she had begotten, nourished and idol- 
 ized, must be taken from her. Could life have any joy 
 for her with Astrid gone? 
 
 They had finished " Lift Thine Eyes." The steve- 
 dores had suddenly ceased their monotonous song. 
 The air seemed surcharged with expectancy. A shiver, 
 a snort of the great engine, the sound of many good- 
 
 [65] 
 
BtuOes ot Xitc 
 
 byes, and a child's voice rang out clear and true above 
 the confusion : 
 
 " God be with you till we meet again ! " 
 
 The young EngUshman had gone to his engine, but 
 Astrid's father and mother, and all the passengers in 
 the vicinity, joined in the song. 
 
 On the wharf rude sailors, stevedores, and friends of 
 outward bound passengers stood with bared heads. It 
 was Astrid's benediction. 
 
 The good ship steamed out of the beautiful harbor, 
 and Astrid turned her little face, as she sang, toward 
 the Battery, where the sun lay reflected in a ball of gold 
 that shot out ray upon ray of gladness among waving 
 palms and flowering oleanders. 
 
 It was a Sunday afternoon in May. The roof gar- 
 den of the Children's Hospital was swarming with pale 
 Uttle creatures who constituted the convalescent pa- 
 tients. Astrid was there in her little wheeled carriage, 
 her knee propped up to keep her from the constant pain 
 that had racked her Ufe for weeks. Her face seemed 
 more spiritual. The great blue eyes looked within 
 instead of without. Heavenward instead of earthward. 
 She was so emaciated that one could clasp one's fingers 
 around her wrists. After the first operation, she had 
 seemed better. Her mother had sailed for Europe to 
 fulfil a short engagement, for artists are breadwinners 
 after all, and it was necessary. 
 
 There was an iron raiUng around the roof garden 
 and, as Astrid's nurse reached a certain spot, she 
 fastened a handkerchief there. Instantly a similar 
 
 [66] 
 
beacon floated from a window of a neighboring house. 
 In a few minutes a figure appeared on the roof, and 
 there stood Astrid's papa, who could visit his little girl 
 at the Hospital only once a day, all dressed, as she had 
 wished, as if for the opera. She clapped her hands in 
 childish glee, as her dear "II Trovatore" floated upon 
 the air. 
 
 Suddenly a carriage stopped at the very entrance of 
 the narrow street that lay between the apartment 
 house and the Hospital. A lady, beautifully gowned, 
 still young and of queenly bearing, stepped out, held 
 up her jewelled hand and, with a nod of recognition, 
 began to sing to her stage lover. It was Madame 
 Aviglia, the great prima donna. 
 
 " Ah, I have sighed to rest me — " 
 
 Astrid listened with bated breath, clasping her hands 
 in an ecstasy of deUght. 
 
 " They sing so beautifully," she cried. " She has 
 almost as beautiful a voice as my mother — but not 
 quite. I want her up here. Please call her." 
 
 The nurse beckoned over the railing, then drew back. 
 
 Dr. L , the great physician, at the head of the 
 
 Hospital,was shaking hands with the lady, and Astrid's 
 papa was waving a farewell to her from his place on 
 the roof. She smiled, looked up at the children, threw 
 a kiss and was gone. 
 
 A week passed. What may not happen in a week! 
 They cabled for Astrid's mother. The second opera- 
 tion was not a success. Even if the little limb were 
 amputated there was no hope for Ufe. The great 
 doctors who had seen the wonderful vigor of both 
 parents shook their heads, yet no longer wondered 
 that this frail, gifted little potentiality held on to life 
 so tenaciously. 
 
 [67] 
 
i£tu&es of %itc 
 
 It was Sunday morning and Children's Day in the 
 churches. Astrid heard the glad bells, and they told 
 her that a beautiful lady had sent her some flowers, 
 several of which she held close to her breast for a long 
 time. Her father came to see her in the morning, 
 bringing a cablegram, " a sweet message " he called it, 
 from the dear absent mamma. The nurse pinned it 
 to the counterpane, so that the child might often be 
 reminded of it. 
 
 " Will mamma come soon? " the little one asked, as 
 she fixed her great blue eyes on her father and the 
 niurse. 
 
 " Very soon," they answered cheerfully. She plied 
 the same question to the great doctor when he came, 
 and often and often, as other members of the Hospital 
 staff passed her bed, she answered, " Very well, thank 
 you, my mamma is coming from Europe soon." 
 
 They allowed her father to remain a long time that 
 day at the Hospital. He sat very quietly by her side, 
 and when she dozed off to sleep, her hand lay tightly 
 clasped in his. Four o'clock in the afternoon came. 
 There was a slight stir in the ward. Several people 
 entered. Among them was a beautiful lady who 
 smiled back at the head nurse and the doctors with 
 genuine womanly interest and pleasure. Madame 
 Aviglia had consented to sing for the children. 
 
 " Where shall I stand, doctor?" she asked of the 
 great physician, the friend of her youth. 
 
 " Right here at the end," he replied, " close to little 
 Astrid's bed." 
 
 Astrid was at the end of the long line, and there was 
 a wide screen beside the little white bed. Madame 
 Aviglia shuddered. " She is Herr Schaul's child, is 
 she not ? " she asked. The physician nodded gravely. 
 
 [68] 
 
HstrtD 
 
 Many of the children who were able were l3ring 
 propped up in bed so that they could see the great 
 prima donna. Astrid alone lay with her eyes closed, 
 her little hand in that of her nurse. 
 
 First Madame AvigUa sang some children's songs: 
 " My Bed is My Boat," " Wynken, Blinken and Nod," 
 and " The Gingerbread Man," that made the children 
 cry out with deUght. 
 
 " Would you sing * The Songs My Mother Sang * ? " 
 asked the physician, as he bent toward her. 
 
 She snuled assent, as she placed her hand on his 
 arm, for they were very old friends. 
 
 As she sang, Astrid's eyes, large and full and eager, 
 with new and unwonted light, were turned full upon 
 her. The child half rose in bed, and the kind nurse 
 propped her up among the pillows. Two great tears 
 coiwsed down the Uttle one's face. When the last 
 notes of the song had died away, Madame Aviglia was 
 stooping over the bed. " Astrid," she said, as she 
 kissed the white forehead, " what other songs do you 
 love?" 
 
 " If you were mamma you would sing my song,'* 
 said the child. She himimed over that old, old lullaby 
 by Kucken, only the words were in the Norwegian. 
 Madame AvigUa sat down by the bed and, taking the 
 little hand in hers, sang it over and over to the child's 
 deUght and satisfaction. 
 
 " Now I would Uke * Hear Ye, Israel,' " said Astrid, 
 after the kind nurse had given her her medicine. 
 
 The head physician had been called out a moment. 
 On his return he came close to Astrid's side and 
 whispered to the singer, " Just one more, she is very 
 tired." 
 
 " We are going to sing * Hear Ye, Israel,' " said 
 
 [69] 
 
Btut)es of Xife 
 
 Astrid. " Then," with a smile toward the singer, 
 " you will go home to your little girl, I guess." 
 
 A great wave of feeling passed over the face of Ma- 
 dame Aviglia. 
 
 " If God gave me a little girl like you, Astrid," she 
 said close to the child's ear, " I think I would be the 
 happiest woman in all the world." 
 
 " Then you shall be my mamma while mine is 
 away," said Astrid, as she kissed the jewelled hand 
 beside her. 
 
 Throughout all the wards and far out into the street 
 that beautiful voice travelled, but Astrid's quavering 
 little notes in unison were heard only by those who 
 stood at her bedside. 
 
 " Israel! Israel!" Had the Father of all Mercies 
 forgotten that the mother bird was hurrying across the 
 ocean to her nestling? 
 
 The prima donna kissed the child's forehead. 
 
 "Good-bye, Astrid, good-bye, we shall meet again.'* 
 
 She suddenly took the arm of her friend, the physi- 
 cian. She had never been close to the passing of 
 a child into the Infinite, and her soul shrank back. 
 Astrid smiled from her white pillow. She was very 
 happy. 
 
 In the physician's office, the two old friends paused. 
 
 " Is there no hope, Frederick ? " she asked. 
 
 " None at all, Marie," he answered gravely. " We 
 are making it easy for her. He knows it — the father. 
 They let it go too long — it is tuberculosis of the bone. 
 You see they had reverses here at first. She, the mother, 
 didn't seem to make it a success, but both — " 
 
 " Are very gifted," Mme. Aviglia interposed, " and 
 I will see the management at the Opera. They must 
 have more salary." 
 
 [70] 
 
HstrfC) 
 
 " You are very good, Marie, always generous and 
 thoughtful of others, always — " 
 
 The woman turned toward her friend, and her breath 
 came quickly. 
 
 " Don't say that, Frederick," she cried, impetuously, 
 " don't, don't ! I can^t bear it now. I chose art and 
 you chose medicine ; we have both realized our youth- 
 ful ambition. Wo are celebrated, but oh, how small 
 and dwarfed and pitiable has been the life within. We 
 have been alone, Frederick, alone, alone! " 
 
 The face of the great physician grew eager. 
 
 " Marie," he cried, " is it too late? " 
 
 There was a knock at the door. A young doctor 
 entered. 
 
 " Little Astrid has gone," he said. " It was very 
 quick, as we all expected. We had no time to 
 send for her father. She passed away as you saw her, 
 smiling." 
 
 " I will go to her father," said the doctor. " No, 
 Marie, you are a woman — you can do better." 
 
 When Madame Aviglia entered the apartment house 
 across the street, it was quite dark and there was no 
 sound save the distant tones of a piano. She followed 
 the sound and knocked at the door. 
 
 Astrid' s father came quickly. 
 
 " Madame Aviglia," he cried, " I thought it was the 
 doctor, I — " 
 
 " Comrade," she said, as she took the hands of the 
 man in her strong, warm grasp, " to-day has been the 
 happiest day of my life. I have seen and known 
 Astrid. Her sweet spirit will go with me wherever I 
 go throughout life, to make me better, purer, nobler. 
 The God-light had almost faded within me, and I saw 
 only the husk of things. I was farther from God than 
 
 [71] 
 
3etu&es of Xtfe 
 
 when I set out on my journey. I had gained Knowl- 
 edge. You have had Love and Knowledge. Without 
 Love there is no perfect Life. Oh, my rich friend, she 
 — the little star of your life — is not dead. Her 
 spirit will abide forever. Her life will be the closest 
 Imk you have with the Infinite." 
 
 Astrid*s funeral was held in a vine-covered chapel in 
 a beautiful New England burying ground. Madame 
 Aviglia chose the spot. It was close to her own dear 
 mother and father. She knew that her friends could 
 visit it during the year when they needed to get away 
 from the worry and hard work of the operatic season. 
 
 There was only a little organ in the chapel, but the 
 village organist was thoroughly musical, and when 
 Madame Aviglia sang, " Hear Ye, Israel," after her old 
 pastor had told the story of the last days of the child's 
 life, the country people listened attentively, and many 
 wept, but the child's mother was strangely calm. She 
 had arrived in time to prepare with her own hands the 
 shroud of her little one. She seemed dazed and grief- 
 spent. 
 
 On that rare June day, there were four people who 
 bowed their heads and thanked God, as the pastor 
 clearly and distinctly ended his prayer, " A little child 
 shall lead them ; though this little life has left them, let 
 Thy Fatherhood comfort and sustain them." 
 
 A young EngUshman, tanned and weather-beaten, 
 with a sweet girl-bride at his side, and Astrid's physi- 
 cian with Madame Aviglia, followed the little one to 
 her flower-strewn resting place, and when all that was 
 mortal had passed from their sight, they looked up to 
 Heaven and pledged their faith anew. 
 
 [72 J 
 
®ffp CHru nf % Instfteh 
 
CK €ry of tbe Uiidifted 
 
 |HE vast canopy of Heaven overhead 
 and myriad beacon lights in the si- 
 lence of the night; humanity, great 
 suffering humanity, below on God's 
 footstool — that great round Earth 
 that, waking or sleeping, moves in its 
 unbroken orbit, never questioning 
 why; in the distance the faint sound of music in a 
 quaint minor mode, simple, peaceful, measureless; 
 all this and a figure standing alone on a bleak prom- 
 ontory overlooking the restless, unsatisfied ocean. 
 The man is bowed, bent, old before his time, but 
 the love of Life has not been crushed out of him by 
 the grinding wheels of Necessity: the untaught, the 
 ungifted, the artisan, the human clod. 
 
 Suddenly a line of light across the sky, quick as a 
 meteor and as mysterious as the Aurora Borealis, 
 sending its shaft straight to the feet of the lonely man 
 on the cliff. With trembling limbs he sinks upon 
 his knees, bows his head and waits for a sign. 
 
 Another figure, veiled, elusive, noble of mien. God- 
 like of stature, glides through the soft mellow light, 
 half concealing, half revealing itself; pityingly di- 
 vine and old with the weight of years, but wearing 
 the insignia of perennial youth; grave and retro- 
 spective, yet animated with the motive power of the 
 life of our time, and full of the sweet optimism of the 
 future. A figure almost unsexed in the possession of 
 
 [75] 
 
Btut>es of Xife 
 
 the loftiest attributes of both manhood and woman- 
 hood, with a face in whose lineaments are stamped 
 clear revelation and perpetual benediction. 
 
 The artisan raises his head, but continues to kneel, 
 as if waiting for some touch that shall connect his 
 soul with the beautiful things of Life and the mystery 
 of Immortality. The veiled figure stands silent and 
 mysterious, full of nobility and abiding sympathy, 
 waiting, almost agonizingly, to awaken the soul of 
 the suppliant, with a touch of heavenly beauty that 
 surpasses all human knowledge, and radiates to the 
 onlooking stars of Heaven. 
 
 The figure of the man quivers. Blindly, passion- 
 ately, with tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, 
 he half rises and extends his hands to his deliverer. 
 In his eyes there shines the light of unfettered longing 
 for the beautiful things of Life, hitherto intangible and 
 vague. The old Unes of grovelling jealousy, sullen 
 despair and hopeless ignorance, begin to fade; and 
 love, beauty and peace toward all men, change his 
 features so that, in the Ught from above, he appears 
 like unto his mysterious guest. 
 
 He rises to his feet, utters a cry that echoes to the 
 rock-bound shores of the land of his boyhood, where 
 other souls like his toil on and see not the light in the 
 sky, nor know that lying within them is the Divine 
 Spark that can glorify their marred and warped exist- 
 ence. Suddenly they look up and see Eternal Beauty 
 above and around them; all the old marks of waste 
 and failure and evil depart, and there is a new song 
 in their souls. 
 
 In the years to come they will see the veiled figure 
 descending from Heaven, sometimes as they gaze 
 upon a beautiful work of art, sometimes after listening 
 
 [76] 
 
Ube Cr^ of tbe 'Cln0ifte& 
 
 to a beautiful symphony, and again as they strive to 
 beautify God's waste places, for the veiled figure moves 
 forever, and is named Force, the evidence of the First 
 Cause of all Creation, the Creator. 
 
 Whether man wills or not, the Divine Spark is 
 within him, however far he may have fallen ; and when 
 it is kindled, he learns not only the beauty of holiness, 
 but the holiness of beauty. 
 
 I77l 
 
Cfte Old *€dli$r$ Prayer 
 
 Jittittt?, — 
 ©lyat Ji0^js «at Ij^Ip satm sstni tn bettor Ito. 
 MtdkB xm vi^Bput mg mateml 00 ntturlf tl|at 31 
 
 slyaU tuit Bl|trk. 
 ?l|^lp ttt0 to b0 I|fltt^JSt tfltwari Art a«Ii iai^ai to 
 
 tl|^ brat ut Stfe. 
 Qlf arly m? to bp pore aa tl|e ^JtpM rljtlbreo mtiow 
 
 3f Uai. 
 O^tw we tl|e tooe-rolor tl|at ia bot a nfUttmn 
 of tlje totter Itgtjt of perfert peare totttj 
 (Bah nnh ilao. 
 iCet ttte I|oli to SJieala, for tl|ere ta a« enormooa 
 expeolittore of ettergg to ti|e poraott of tlje 
 MttreaL 
 Knp ttte from rarittg more for Art tljao for 
 Ijumatt tteelia — more for tlje Perfertei Bom 
 ttjatt for tl|e llttbent ©mtg. 
 (Bnitit ttte to mg mork tl|at 31 mag ha ttye beat tlyat 
 3( ran to tlje fare of abaolute Srutlj; rnih ml|e«, 
 SorlJ. mg mork ta hone, grant me bnt a moiieat 
 rompetenre, — enongli to make tlje ^jatli a little 
 easier aa tl|e ICiglit groma litm atti tlje l|anJja 
 berome too feeble to gnilie tlje ^taff. ©tjen 
 take me ^ome. for i aliall be ttreb — oerg 
 tireJi after tl|e long toomeg. 
 
Cbe Old 'Celli$r$ Prayer 
 
 ]HEY came trooping in with their vio- 
 lins, just as I stood blowing the 
 snow off my coat collar, for it was a 
 blustering night, quite equal to any 
 in the whole of Kriss Kringle's his- 
 tory. As I sat down, prepared to 
 toast my aching feet before the 
 drift-wood fire (for my friends had never laid by 
 their old traditions and the questionable luxury of a 
 fireplace) , Adolph tumbled over his vioUn case, and 
 loud wails immediately issued from the mouth of 
 a totally unharmed but frightened little boy who, 
 being plump, usually fell hard. Her^ven bless him! 
 His tears were dried in a moment, and all went well 
 until we were called to tea, a totally unnecessary 
 function after a glorious Christmas dinner. How fast 
 our tongues flew! But, alas, no one did justice to 
 the feast. Poor little Preston's eyes almost bulged 
 out of his head, he was so anxious to eat the choco- 
 late cake ; but nature rebelled, as it fortunately does 
 when a full stomach absolutely refuses to do more 
 work. I saw Robert stowing away some cheese 
 straws and fudge in his pockets, but when he saw me 
 looking, he grew apprehensive least I might betray 
 his secret. How could I betray even the sUghtest 
 weakness of " my boys " at Christmas time ? There 
 were, indeed, very few more secrets to be revealed, 
 for all the children had received their presents, and 
 
 [8i] 
 
}Etu^es ot Xite 
 
 the big tree stood stark and cold in the front hall. I 
 should have kept it lighted until New Year's Eve, as 
 my good friends do in Germany, for there one gives 
 a whole week to the Christmas festivities. 
 
 After tea we all stood round the table, joined 
 hands and sang an old German song called the 
 " Weinachtsmann," which I had taught the children. 
 " When I'm a man I'm going to Germany and be 
 a Prince," Blnox said in a loud voice, " I'm going to 
 take lessons from Paganini, too!" This outburst 
 caused such merriment that poor little Knox, the 
 youngest of all except Adolph, our baby violinist, 
 got under the table to hide his mortification. 
 
 " Good evening and God bless you ! " cried a big 
 hearty voice at the door, and there stood the Pro- 
 fessor, his great coat collar turned up to his ears and 
 his bushy gray eyebrows full of snow, which he 
 was rapidly mopping off; as he laid aside his hat 
 and coat, he turned to each lad with his wonderful 
 smile and patted all the round heads with true 
 affection. 
 
 "The Professor! The Professor!" the children 
 shouted, as their good friend deposited his 'cello care- 
 fully in the comer. " And not a word for me, 
 Kinder? " asked a motherly voice at the door, as the 
 Professor's helpmate, fat and rosy, appeared. 
 
 The boys crowded round her, for they loved the 
 dear " Duchen," as the Professor always called her, 
 as if she were still young and petite as in her youth. 
 What warmth and cheer these good German friends 
 brought with them! Such a treat! The Professor 
 would play some solos, and " Duchen " would ac- 
 company him ; then, if all went well, the boys would 
 play some Wohlfahrt Trios, good Gebauer, and pos- 
 
 [82] 
 
XTbe ®l& 'Cellist's ipraiger 
 
 sibly Robert might be asked to try the beloved 
 Haydn. 
 
 Little Adolph began to droop early, and the tiny 
 one-eighth violin had to take its place beside a tired 
 little boy on the sofa, but Knox and Robert and 
 Preston just kept on playing and winking their tired 
 eyes like heroes till, at last, Sallie Lou, the maid, 
 brought in pop-corn balls, fudge, some dainty cakes 
 and real hot chocolate " with froth on it," as Knox 
 expressed himself. 
 
 When the Professor and his wife had sung " Heil 
 dir im SiegerKranz," which is the same thing as 
 our " America," the words of which the boys loudly 
 declaimed, and the Haydn Trio had at last been 
 played successfully, the boys, w^ith a good-night 
 for all their friends, stalked off to bed in the big 
 chamber in the north wing of the house where 
 David, the best watch dog in the world, kept nightly 
 guard. They had just left us a moment when I saw 
 the Professor's wife go softly up stairs with the dear 
 mother, — for the motherless as well as the mother 
 loved to look upon the little faces in their white beds, 
 and to hear the last whispered prayers. 
 
 " Have you ever thought," asked the Professor, 
 as he puffed away at his pipe, " that children are the 
 real links between us and Heaven ? God means that 
 all * grown-ups ' should serve youth in some capac- 
 ity. I never recall having told a child a falsehood. 
 I can't. The little one is so fresh from the heart of 
 God." 
 
 This was much to say — very much for him. The 
 Professor was a reserved man. He had never had a 
 little boy of his own, but hundreds of " boys," young 
 and old, had known and loved him, yes, had learned 
 
 [83] 
 
Btu&es of Xffe 
 
 some of Life's noblest lessons at his side, for the 
 Professor taught his pupils how to live as well as 
 how to play. 
 
 " We teachers do not merely play instruments of 
 wood," the good man continued, as he sat knocking 
 the ashes out of his pipe. " We play into human 
 lives when we stand before the public, for every 
 stage is Life's stage, and we touch every chord of the 
 human heart, as we speak the message, great or small, 
 that God has entrusted to a boworahiunanvoice." 
 
 I caught his thought. Like him I had grown old 
 and gray in the service of Art, but with it my neigh- 
 bor's children had grown as dear as the flowers of 
 Spring to me, yea, more precious than the jewels of a 
 Queen's diadem, and in their love my heart still beat 
 the rhythmic beat of youth. Some of them did not 
 know, could not fathom, the depth of my love, but 
 God gave them to me for Art just as He gave them to 
 their mothers for nurture. And how proud we were 
 to share the honor and the blessing ! 
 
 " Who says he is too great to teach a little child ? " 
 exclaimed the Professor, after a long silence. " Who 
 dares to belittle himself by confessing that he sees no 
 glory in the simple faith of open-hearted youth ? " 
 
 He rose to his full height of over six feet, and 
 straightened back his huge shoulders, while his fine 
 grey eyes, gleaming like sentinels in that massive 
 head, burned into my very soul the message — one of 
 those flash-lights of true art-aflinity, that come to 
 us, thank God, as if to prop up our human frailties. 
 
 " Lord," he cried with upraised hand, " let me 
 never teach a note that is not Divine, that does not 
 help some soul to better live. Make me respect my 
 material so much that I shall not shrink. Help me 
 
 [84] 
 
Ube ©It) 'Cellist's prater 
 
 to be honest toward Art and loyal to the best in Life. 
 Teach me to be pure as the happy children whom I 
 lead. Give me the tone-color that is but a reflection 
 of the inner light of perfect peace with God and Man. 
 Let me hold to Ideals, for there is in this age an enor- 
 mous expenditure of energy in the pursuit of the 
 Unreal. Keep me from caring more for Art than for 
 human needs — more for the Perfected Bow than for 
 the Unbent Twig. Guide me in my work that I may 
 do the best that I can in the face of absolute Truth; 
 and when, Lord, my work is done, grant me but a 
 modest competence, — enough to make the path a 
 little easier, as the Light grows dim and the hands 
 become too feeble to guide the Staff. Then take me 
 Home, for I shall be tired — very tired after the long 
 journey." 
 
 " Amen," a sleepy httle voice answered from the 
 sofa. We had all forgotten little Adolph lying there 
 fast asleep with his beloved violin. 
 
 He sat up, rubbed his eyes and began to cry. 
 
 " Hush, Liebchen," said the old Professor, as he 
 took the little boy in his arms and walked out of the 
 room, and up the broad stairs at whose top stood the 
 dear mother, for she had come back for the last one 
 of her little band of sleepers. 
 
 " He has said his prayer," said the Professor 
 softly, as he put the little boy in his white cot. " We 
 said one together." 
 
 I wonder if that prayer went Home. I think it 
 did, for was it not Christmas night ? 
 
 [85] 
 
flw Bitf&ra attb ta ktttb, 
 0OT xtapB ml^xt otljpra 00m, 
 
$oul Cecbttic 
 
 LTHEA was a plain, unconventional 
 woman, with a habit of contracting her 
 eyebrows and twitching her mouth at 
 the corners when she talked or played. 
 She might have been an5rwhere be- 
 tween thirty and forty, her vivacity 
 and freshness were so misleading. 
 Olivia, her friend, was older, — one of those women 
 who grow more beautiful as middle life approaches. 
 
 When the invitation came, though there were man- 
 uscripts and manuscripts to look over, letters to write, 
 pubHshers to interview, and no end of schemes of liveli- 
 hood to be worked out, Althea turned loose from every- 
 thing and journeyed to the " shack." 
 
 What a sense of freedom she felt, as the familiar 
 lines of the winding Saugatuck met her eyes ! Some 
 might love the freedom of the woods. Althea loved 
 water. Somehow its ebb and flow seemed a part of 
 her restless life. 
 
 Olivia never made " company " of her friends. Her 
 home was a home-made one, neat, orderly, artistic, 
 comfortable, simple and unconventional like its 
 owners. 
 
 " You are the most restful thing in the world," the 
 younger woman said, when they met at the station. 
 Olivia smiled, and her smile was pure content. 
 The violin, safely packed away in its worn case, the 
 
 [89] 
 
Btu5es of Xife 
 
 dress suit case with its few clothes and stray manu- 
 scripts that would not stay at home — her " treasures," 
 as she called them, were at once seized by a loving 
 hand and, in the twinkling of an eye, Old Jerry was 
 trotting down the street at a pace so unusual that he 
 looked at a passing street car with cool disdain. Had 
 he not trotting blood in his veins ? 
 
 June, beautiful June, on the Saugatuck! The city 
 woman inhaled long deep breaths of pure air, and 
 laughed a low gurgling laugh that contained the very 
 essence of perfect happiness. 
 
 It was not until the evening lamps were lighted and 
 the two were sitting in a deep corner of the wide ve- 
 randa that Olivia really began to talk, and she was the 
 most wonderful talker in the world to the woman 
 beside her. They spoke of the old professional 
 life. 
 
 " You are sure you don't long for it again ? " queried 
 Althea. 
 
 The swish, swish of the Saugatuck was the only 
 sound heard for a few minutes. Then Olivia spoke in 
 her warm, rich, well-modulated voice that men and 
 women always loved. It was as mellow and as soft 
 as a muted violin at times ; then it grew to a *cello 
 tone, its throbbing intensity rousing one to a wild 
 pitch of excitement, only to die away in a simple, plain- 
 tive cadence that fitted the wonderful maternal .side of 
 the woman. 
 
 " You know, dear," she said, " when I married and 
 gave up my art-life, I had but one thought — to make 
 him happy, to be a good wife to him and to be loved, 
 loved, LOVED as no other woman in the world had 
 ever been loved. 
 
 E90] 
 
Soul XTecbnic 
 
 " We were very happy for a time, and then he grew 
 restless. It almost tore my heart-strings to see it. I 
 tried to absorb him still more, believing that my great 
 love was a panacea for all ills, but he grew more and 
 more restless. Publishers wrote to him and made 
 offers ; he never answered. Literary friends called. He 
 was moody and silent. 
 
 " At length — I remember that night, it was a 
 wild one on the Saugatuck, and I heard the fog horns 
 on the Sound — I asked him what had come into his 
 life that made him so unhappy. He looked at me, 
 dear, and said, * Would you mind very much, little 
 wife, if I asked you to go away for a few days? I wish 
 to be alone.'" 
 
 " 'Alone, alone ! * — I shall never forget those words. 
 I seemed half-dazed, half -mad in my desire to hide 
 my wounded spirit from his gaze, but I never 
 reproached him. Something told me it would come 
 out right. 
 
 " I left him in the early morning, when the fog was 
 still hanging close to the Saugatuck and the marshes 
 were dank and dripping. I went home to my mother 
 and, dear, God gave me work to do to fill the aching 
 void and ease the pain. My mother became very ill 
 and her life hung by a single thread for weeks. My 
 husband's letters came often; they were filled with 
 tender solicitude, but he never spoke of his literary 
 work. 
 
 " One day I received a telegram that he needed me. 
 My mother had recovered. Oh ! I cannot tell you how 
 my heart beat as I passed the old familiar places along 
 the route. At Albany a stranger entered the car and 
 sat down beside me. He was a little blond man with 
 
 [91] 
 
lEtu^es of Xite 
 
 blue eyes, kindly and eager. I remember just how 
 he looked as he sat cutting the leaves of a new 
 magazine. He turned to a poem. A delighted ex- 
 clamation burst from his lips. I looked and, dear, the 
 whole world seemed to be surging before me. My 
 pulses reeled, my eyes swam with tears, my heart — 
 my poor starved heart — almost burst. It was my 
 husband's poem * Soul Technic ! * 
 
 " The little man looked at me. * You love poetry,* 
 he said, * read it ; it is a great poem. That man, 
 whoever he is, like my countryman Bjomsen, must 
 have had a wife who gave him peace to work.' " 
 
 I, who had selfishly absorbed my husband's love, 
 given him little time, opportunity, or inspiration for 
 work in our early wedded Ufe, I — the woman — stood 
 confronted by Myself. And how I hated the Past with 
 all its mistakes and selfishness ! 
 
 " In my absence he had found Himself and had 
 then bent all his forces toward an art-ideal. The 
 poem, perhaps outlined years before, had taken shape, 
 becoming a living, breathing, hiunan thing in its per- 
 fect relation to Life's needs. 
 
 " As I read, it seemed as if all my selfishness and 
 restlessness vanished. I was no more a mere woman. 
 I became a complement of that other life to which 
 I was wedded, yet into which I had as yet fitted 
 so unworthily. Life seemed dearer, God seemed 
 nearer. 
 
 " The man at my side smiled, as I read. * A great 
 poem,' he said again, * and the man who wrote it is no 
 weakling. Life and Art are to him the greatest things 
 in the world.' " 
 
 " I closed the book. We were nearing New York. 
 
 [92] 
 
Soul tlecbnic 
 
 How could I meet my husband and not confess in my 
 eyes and voice that I had not understood in the first 
 sacred weeks of marriage? Should I go home or 
 should I go quietly to a Uttle family hotel in the un- 
 fashionable part of the city and think, think, think? 
 I could not tell him how I, in my selfish love, had been 
 jealous of that other rare and beautiful Ufe of his — his 
 first affection. 
 
 " * Olivia ! Olivia ! ' " 
 
 " The train had stopped, and I was with the hurrying 
 throng on the platform. My husband was beside me, 
 dear, his great brown eyes peering into mine, his hand 
 — but I must not tell you all. I smiled through tears, 
 as I said, * I have just seen the poem, dear. A man 
 showed it to me on the train. He said that you were 
 like Bjornsen — your wife gave you peace to work — * 
 
 " My voice broke. He looked at me, Althea, and 
 understood. We have always understood since then." 
 
 In the " rest comer " of a New York studio, Althea 
 has placed a copy of "Soul Technic." Underneath is 
 a little garden scene in front of the " shack." Olivia is 
 picking flowers for her husband's study. He is not 
 there. 
 
 Will you pause and read ? 
 
 [93] 
 
#0ul ®wl|ntr. 
 
 Into the busy mart of Life I passed, 
 
 My crude tools in my hand, — 
 Artisan born and bred. 
 
 With some God-light within, 
 A mere dull clod without a germ of might. 
 And there I met another man 
 As arid, small and paltry as myself. 
 
 Save that he had acquired some certain skill 
 That men call Genius by the grace of God. 
 And when we took each other by the hand, 
 
 And felt the warm rich blood within our veins, 
 And looked into each other's eyes for light, — 
 
 Behold an instinct, towering o'er the wreck 
 Of misspent years of Opportunity, 
 
 Raised to a Soul the cringing, dwarfed Past, 
 And broke the shackles with a single stroke. 
 
 Silent, we paused with reverent attitude. 
 
 Waiting for God's own stamp upon the brow, — 
 Then Love passed by and looked into our souls. 
 
 That scarred and thirsty shrank before her gaze. 
 No words she spoke, nor heard we a command, 
 
 But swift the God-man entered in. 
 While down our sunken, callous cheeks 
 
 Great scalding tears fell thick and fast. 
 And all the mighty muscles in our arms 
 
 Stood out like whipcords, as we staggered forth 
 To do with tools, with heart, with brain, with soul. 
 
 The work that in God's Vineyard lay undone ; 
 Then Love — the Woman LOVE — passed from our 
 sight. 
 
 Leaving a sign above a lintel old. 
 We read, and reading pondered o'er the words, — 
 
 Then homeward went, each to his open door. 
 
 [94i 
 
Soul Uecbnic 
 
 Love honors and obeys, 
 
 Love sufifers and is kind, 
 
 Love reaps where others sow, 
 
 Love leads the patient blind. 
 To suffer, bleed and die. 
 
 For chUd and home and hearth, 
 This is what Love hath done 
 
 While making Heaven of Earth. 
 Oh Man, when from thy side 
 
 Gone is her ministry. 
 Though thou hadst peace to do thy tasks 
 
 Through all Eternity, 
 And though the world thy name 
 
 Cried to the stars above, — 
 There is no gift of God so great 
 
 As Woman's perfect Love. 
 
 [9Sl 
 

JIuf Oliederseben 
 
 HE good ship Pennsylvania steamed 
 out of the harbor of Hamburg. 
 There were many good-byes, good 
 wishes expressed in tearful language, 
 long salutations from dock to steamer 
 and back again, and a company of 
 strangers began, as is the custom of 
 travellers, to become acquainted with each other. 
 It was an easy matter, especially with the pleasure- 
 loving Americans, for some had common friends in 
 the home-land and others had student affiliations 
 abroad. Thus do some of the most vital and help- 
 ful associations of life spring up, grow and thrive. 
 It is hard to think that later friendships are not 
 enduring. Lowell said, " After wrinkles come, few 
 plant, but water dead ones with vain tears," and yet, 
 as we develop, we need the help of others who have 
 climbed still higher. May not the new links be the 
 strongest ? 
 
 There were two that August day who sat apart, 
 looking off toward the shifting landscape of the 
 Blankenese, dreamily, sadly, yet with souls attuned 
 to the beauty that, colored by foreign residence, 
 grows upon one unawares, leaving a vague re- 
 gret, when again one returns to the white frame 
 houses and cool green blinds of New England, for 
 alas! we are more orderly, neat and thrifty than 
 aesthetic, and the stone wall and purple rail have 
 
 {99] 
 
Btu&cs of Xtfe 
 
 not yet the traditions that make artists and poets 
 of us. 
 
 The two that sat thus were young musicians, one 
 already a concert pianist who had begun her career 
 auspiciously and legitimately, without bribe or bar- 
 ter. She was city bred, gentle, well-poised, of un- 
 usually vivacious temperament, modest as to her 
 gifts, and full of the joy of Uving. The other was a 
 strange creature, restless, moody, easily irritated and 
 devoted to one ideal — her violin. Her childhood 
 had been spent in a secluded valley; her earliest 
 memories were linked with the delight of wood and 
 field, of ponds fresh with lilies, and of gardens full of 
 old fashioned flowers. She was intimate with every 
 bird on the wing and every tree whose shade had com- 
 forted her when, barefooted and worn and weary, she 
 rested after her childhood rambles and wanderings in 
 the fragrant fields and along the highways of her home 
 village. 
 
 She knew every inch of the meadows where grew 
 her favorite orchids: she had learned the haunts of 
 the ladies* slipper, her favorite Indian pipes, and 
 the gentle wood violet. Nor did she derive pleasure 
 alone from the beautiful world about her. There 
 was an old, old man — almost ninety — they said, who 
 was her playmate and friend. A veteran of the War 
 of 1812 and of the Mexican War, a staunch old Whig, 
 with a touch of aristocracy and breeding about him 
 that gave to his shining black beaver peculiar dig- 
 nity in the eyes of a child. 
 
 Her best lessons were learned at his side, and 
 when the winter came, he it was who drew her on 
 her sled to the neighboring pond where, with a chair 
 for support, he taught her to skate. 
 
 [100] 
 
But XKIlie&erBeben 
 
 It was not strange that reared as she was " in the 
 open," she had not learned to concentrate Uke the 
 city girl. Then, too, her little scattered community 
 of hard-working, under-paid country people, who 
 either toiled in the mills and factories in the neighbor- 
 ing town, or wrung a scanty subsistence from the soil, 
 had never seen with her eyes or longed with her soul 
 for the higher culture that makes life richer, — the 
 life with books and pictures and music. 
 
 The city girl's childhood had been sheltered by 
 love and nourished by kindness, but all the peace 
 of the " open," with its ever-changing wonder of 
 life, had never sunk deep into her heart. Like many 
 others who have entered upon their journey of dis- 
 covery and awakening abroad, both students had be- 
 come restless and feverish with Ambition. A year 
 passed. The city girl had already appeared as 
 a virtuoso, and was anxious to renew her tri- 
 umphs in America. The country girl was but 
 half way up the hill, and just when her soul cried 
 out for Knowledge, she found she must return to 
 America. 
 
 Neither one had learned the joy of Service. 
 Neither cried out in a nightly prayer for strength to 
 carry a message of beauty into the material world. 
 Their young lives were just opening, and mysterious 
 voices, with manifold potentiality, whetted by Am- 
 bition, called them to a creative life. Though 
 there were riches in their storehouse, they knew not 
 how to use them. Because both were destined to 
 live a life of devotion to Art, neither had developed 
 the maternal instinct. It was but natural that the 
 whole strength of their being should be absorbed in 
 the passion for Knowledge. The passion for Service 
 
 [lOl] 
 
Btut)es ot Xife 
 
 could not be developed until sorrow, disappoint- 
 ment, the weight of years and the deepening of 
 their spiritual natures, made it possible. 
 
 They longed for the intoxication of triumph in 
 Art, the one equipped, the other only half-ready. 
 Both had dreamed day and night of the 'splendor of 
 Fame, when one could reach out the hand and 
 touch the sky. And they knew no fear, because 
 their hearts were clean, pure and honest. 
 
 On the deck, side by side, these two sat, and no 
 one disturbed them. They were both writing. One 
 had a music pad, the other a note book. At last the 
 pianist spoke. " We will try it over by and by," she 
 said. " It is a cradle song from my Land of Dreams. 
 It just came to me as we left Hamburg. And 
 yours ? " 
 
 The girl at her side rose. 
 
 " We will go aft," she said, " and I will read it to 
 you. I must look toward Berlin when I read. It is 
 a poem about my life there. It seems so unfin- 
 ished — that life, but something came into my mind, 
 and I wrote it down. I am not sure that I, myself, 
 imderstand it all." 
 
 They went aft where they could see the spires of 
 Hamburg fading in the distance, and there they sat 
 a long time before either spoke. 
 
 The poem was hardly a poem — crude at best — 
 but it voiced Youth's longing, and it was spontane- 
 ous — one of those little gems of thought that seem to 
 spring unawares from the depths of the human soul, 
 to be laid away and forgotten because the technic of 
 expression is so crude. And yet it always rings true, 
 and because it is genuine, it is a classic to that life 
 from which it springs. 
 
 [102 ] 
 
But Wiic^cvscbcn 
 
 Years afterwards, when the girl who wrote it had 
 found her place and learned the great lesson of Service, 
 she took out the note book from an old-fashioned 
 basket-trunk, on which were pasted many foreign 
 labels, and read it, pondering deeply upon the strange 
 fatality of human life ; for, in the midst of her beau- 
 tiful art-life, with wonderful gifts and the promise of 
 still greater renown, her friend had died, the victim 
 of a strange accident upon that very ocean which 
 had fostered their friendship and deepened their 
 potentiality. She read and re-read the poem, with- 
 out sadness or sighing, for Death to her has no ter- 
 rors, being only the opening of a richer Life. 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen, dear Land, toward Thee Pve 
 looked 
 
 Since childhood's years, with yearnings fond and 
 vague, 
 Believing that between us lay a vast 
 
 Expanse of ocean, limitless and cold, 
 Akin to those long years of steady toil 
 
 There needs must be, ere from one's slender hoard 
 One draws the coins, and with horizon wide. 
 
 Peers into unknown, beauteous classic worlds. 
 This year with Thee, my own, my treasure Land, 
 
 Hath met the solemn yearning of my soul. 
 I looked upon the skill of painters great, 
 
 And oft, in galleries remote and calm, 
 I rested, while my eyes sought out the form 
 
 Of that Madonna that my nature craved ; 
 Then back I hastened to my daily tasks, 
 
 Stifling a wish to peer into the life 
 About me, lest it might deter me from 
 
 My self-imposed seclusion with etudes. 
 [ 103 ] 
 
Bttt^es of Xitc 
 
 Oh, rare and rich as Thou hast been to me, 
 
 I wonder if perchance Thou goest too 
 Into the dim and long-forgotten Past, 
 
 Linked as Thou art with all the joy of Life, 
 Ere Youth departs reluctant, with the head 
 
 Bowed to the sterner tasks and stronger mould 
 Of Womanhood, its features serious set, 
 
 And all the vigor of its youthful frame 
 Close-knit as with the sinews of restraint, 
 
 Of patience and of hope and peace with God. 
 I cannot think the Past doth not abide. 
 
 Since I have known and loved that perfect art 
 Of one to whom the classics are divine. 
 
 You know of whom I speak in words that fail ; 
 'Twas in the labyrinth of strange new truths 
 
 Of bowing and of phrasing, grounded fast 
 Within his satellites — those loyal men 
 
 Who long with him had studied and communed, 
 That I myself became a worshipper 
 
 Of great Joachim's tone and wondrous skill ; 
 Then, fever-mad, I played from morn till night. 
 
 With but a ray — a glimpse of Truth the while 
 My nature richer grew, and all my soul 
 
 Cried out for deeper Knowledge and for power 
 Outside of tricks of bow and Technic's skill. 
 
 To-day Thou'rt passing from my life, dear Land, 
 But something tells me that the vague pursuit 
 
 Of Art amid thy loved environment. 
 Hath fitted me for wider sympathy. 
 
 For readier service to my kith and kin. 
 For nobler living and for gentler deeds. 
 
 So do I go without one vain regret 
 For the bright coins I gave to Thee. 
 
 I count them but the means that God hath blessed 
 
 [ 104] 
 
Huf MieDerseben 
 
 By trailing friendships in my labor's wake. 
 
 Would that all people might this lesson learn : 
 That what is in your soul must sing aloud ; 
 
 It may not venture to the Hall of Fame, 
 Its voice may never move the passing throng ; 
 
 But what you add of culture to your Life, 
 Will broaden it and make it bear rich fruit 
 
 For Time and for that larger Cycle dim 
 Toward which with reverent mein we daily move, 
 
 With prayers upon our lips that we 
 May one day stand among the chosen few 
 
 That press about the shining form of Him 
 Who made us one with Him by precious blood. 
 
 Then shall we learn how He esteemed us, 
 
 Yea, how He treasured us in His rich store. 
 
 F105] 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 988 820 4 §