stars beyond, but to that inward vision wrought by 

 the strains of some symphonic broadcasting or- 

 chestra in a superb rendition of the "Evening 

 Star" from Tannhauser. Then follows the sweet, 

 weird, affecting melody of Rimsky-Korsakoff, the 

 "Song of India," succeeded by the strange yet 

 ravishing lyricism of Gershwin's revolutionary 

 masterpiece, the "Rhapsody in Blue." Thus enjoy- 

 ing the music in the absolute silence of the watery 

 expanse — as music only can be most enjoyed — I 

 listen to the program to its very end. 



The moon is risen, but is not yet high. Black 

 patches appear in the firmament near the eastern 

 horizon — invisible clouds blotting out the stars — 

 and an occasional film creeps over the face of the 

 moon dulling the brightness of the reflections in 

 the long-reaching lunar trail. These details, how- 

 ever, are only vaguely registered, my mind for the 

 most part being sensitive only to that which strikes 

 the ear — an ear probably perverted, since I am 

 utterly unable to endure the usual tribe of 

 soprano or baritone soloists, holding that most of 

 the former and all of the latter should have been 

 strangled at birth. And I gather from the words of 

 "your announcer" that it is one of these who will 



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