1897. 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



25 



William Alorrls ana Alosio. 



Some idiot, says a writer in The Sat- 

 nrday Review, takes it on himself to as- 

 sure the world that William Morris had 

 no musical sense. As a matter of fact, 

 he had a perfect ear, a most musical 

 singing voice, and so fine a sense of 

 beauty in sound (as in everything else) 

 that he could not endure the clatter of 

 the pianoforte or the squalling and 

 Bhoutiug of the average singer. When I 

 told him that the Amsterdam choir 

 brought over here by M. de Lange had 

 discovered the secret of the beauty of 

 mediaeval music and sang in with sar- 

 passing excellence, he was full of regret 

 for having missed it, and the viol con- 

 certs of M. Dolmetsch pleased him 

 greatly. Indeed, once during his ilness, 

 •when M. Dolmetsch played him some 

 really beautiful music on a really beau- 

 tiful instrument, he was quite overcome 

 by it. 



I once urged him to revive the man- 

 ufacture of musical instruments and 

 rescue us from the vulgar handsomeness 

 of the trade articles with which our or- 

 chestras are equipped, and he was by 

 no means averse to the idea, having al- 

 ways, he avowed, thought he should 

 like to make a good fiddle. Only neither 

 in music nor in anything else could you 

 engage him in any sort of intellectual 

 dilettantism. He would not waste his 

 time and energy on the curiosities and 

 fashions of art, but went straight to its 

 highest point in the direct and simple 

 production of beauty. 



The Child of a Tlllae:e. 



All the scenes and atmosphere of one's 

 native village — if one is fortunate 

 enough to have been born in such a lo- 

 cality — lie around the memory like the 

 horizon line, unreachable, impassable. 

 Even a socalled cosmopolitan man has 

 never seemed to me a very happy being, 

 and a cosmopolitan child is above all 

 things to be pitied. To be identified in 

 early memoriei with some limited and 

 therefore characteristic region — that i» 

 happiness. • No child is old enough to be 

 a citizen of the world. What denation- 

 alized Americans hasten to stamp as 

 provincial is, for children at least, a sav- 

 ing grace. You do not call a nest pro- 

 vincial. All this is particularly true of 

 those marked out by temperament for a 

 literary career. Literature needs for its 



material only men, nature and boots, 

 and of these the first two are every- 

 where and the last are easily transport- 

 able, since you can pile the few supreme 

 authors of the world in a little corner 

 of the smallest log cabin. The Cam- 

 bridge of my boyhood afforded me all 

 that human heart could ask for its ele- 

 mentary training. Those who doubt it 

 might perchance have been the gainers 

 if they had shared it. "He despises me, " 

 said Ben Jonson, "because I live in an 

 alley. Tell him his soul lives in an al- 

 ley. " — Colonel T. W. Higginson in 

 Atlantic. 



Madatne's Quiet Ansvrer. 



It would not do to specify the restau- 

 rant. It is enough to say that it happen- 

 ed in a French restaurant well patron- 

 ized by those whose French consists of 

 "garcon," "oui" and "demi-tasse." 



The place was well filled, and madame 

 at the receipt of custom was busy — mak- 

 ing change, smiling to the customers, 

 frowning deep French frowns at the 

 waiters and shrugging her shoulders 

 and eyebrows at M. le Mari. 



In a little lull a man, evidently an 

 habitue of the place, walked up to 

 madame. In one hand he held a plate, 

 in the other a napkin. 



"Look here, madame, " he began. He 

 held them up for inspection. The plate 

 was shining, but the napkin, where he 

 had used it to wipe the plate, was 

 grimy, almost black. 



Madame looked at him carelessly. 



"If monsieur would wash his hands 

 before he came here," she said softly, 

 with a shrug of her shoulders, "then 

 pair-haps" — 



But the man had gone back to his 

 Beat, and madame made change for some 

 one else. — Philadelphia Ledger. 



His Fannjr JMtXie, 'Way. 



Clara — He has such a funny little 

 way of kissing me on the back of the 

 naok. 



Maade — Well, yoa know he can't see 

 foor f»o« from there. — Taggart'a Timea 



It«al SI*dert7. 



"Wonder why old Skinner's funeral 

 was private?" 



"Family didn't have enough fm>f to 

 make a good display, I gu(«s. ' — bn- 

 troit News. 



