The Life of the Grasshopper 



of a model, it must have been a laborious 

 apprenticeship. 



When our prehistoric ancestor, to cele- 

 brate his return from hunting the Mammoth, 

 intoxicated himself with sour tipple brewed 

 from raspberries and sloes, what can have 

 issued from his hoarse larynx? An orthodox 

 melody? Certainly not; hoarse shouts, 

 rather, capable of shaking the roof of his 

 cave. The loudness of the cry constituted 

 its merit. The primitive song is found to 

 this day when men's throats are fired in 

 taverns instead of caverns. 



And this tenor, with his crude vocal efforts, 

 was already an adept at guiding his pointed 

 flint to engrave on ivory the effigy of the 

 monstrous animal which he had captured; 

 he knew how to embellish his idol's cheeks 

 with red chalk; he knew how to paint his own 

 face with coloured grease. There were 

 plenty of models for form and colour but 

 none for rhythmic sounds. 



With progress came the musical instru- 

 ment, as an adjunct to those first guttural at- 

 tempts. Men blew down tubes taken all in 

 one piece from the sappy branches; they pro- 

 duced sounds from the barley-stalks and 

 made whistles out of reeds. The shell of a 



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