| Vol. III.—No. 118. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | price four cents. |
| Tuesday, January 31, 1882. | Copyright, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
THE LITTLE SLEEPERS.
[THE LONGEST DAY IN THE YEAR.]
BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.
I don't know, what the almanac man said about it, but Dan said it was the longest; and Dan was certainly the one who understood the matter best.
It began pretty much like other days, only that there was a heavy fog, and Dan knew that it was bad weather for haying, and tip-top for fishing. He made up his mind to go fishing. Perhaps if his mind had not been already made up, he would not have minded it so much when his father said at the breakfast table:
"We must get the scythes in good order, so's to take a fair start at the lower meadow to-morrow. Don't let me have to waste time hunting after you, Daniel, when I'm ready to go at it."
Daniel's appetite was gone at once. How he hated to turn that heavy creaking old grindstone! and how sure his father was to find a dozen things to do first, and keep him waiting all the morning! He went around by the sink drain, and dug his bait; he examined his fishing-pole; he put up his lunch; he even tried a worm on the hook; and then he wandered disconsolately around, wishing grindstones had never been invented.
He went to the end of the garden, and leaned sulkily over the low stone wall, eating the half-ripe harvest apples, and throwing the cores spitefully away. Down the road a few rods lay the mill-pond, and in the middle of the road nearby stood Deacon Skinner's horse and chaise.
Old Whitey had his nose down, and one leg crooked in a meditative fashion. The Deacon was over in the field, making a bargain with Solomon Murray for some young cattle. What fun it would be to start the old horse up, and set him trotting home! Dan could almost hit him with an apple core. He tried two or three, just to see, and then he picked a smooth round stone from the wall, and sent it singing through the air.
Old Whitey brought up his nose with a jerk, straightened his fore-leg, and started off at a brisk trot, the chaise top tilting and pitching back and forth.
Dan laughed—at least the laugh began to grow, when he caught one glimpse of a frightened little face at the chaise window, and knew that Nanny Dane, the Deacon's little lame grandchild, was in the chaise.
It was only a glimpse, and then the bank of gray fog swallowed Whitey and the chaise, and it seemed to Dan that they had gone straight into the mill-pond.
"Daniel! Daniel! Come on now, and be spry about it!" called his father, as he moved toward the grindstone; and Dan obeyed, though he felt as if his feet had all at once turned to lead.
Round and round and round; his tough little hands were blistered on the handle, but he did not know it; his mouth and throat were as dry as the stone, but he did not think of it. "Crrr-crrr-crrr," rang the rough, wearisome noise, until his ears were so deafened he did not even hear it. For he was perfectly sure he had killed little Nanny Dane. What would people say? What would they do to him? Hang him, of course; and Dan felt in his heart that he deserved it, and that it would be almost a satisfaction.
"There," said his father at last, "I reckon that'll do, Daniel. You've been faithful and stiddy at your work, and now you may go fishing."
Dan never knew how he got to Long Pond, or how he passed the slow hours of that dismal day. The misery seemed intolerable, and before evening he had made up his mind that he could bear it no longer. He would go home and tell his father, he would tell everybody. They might hang him, they might do anything they pleased.
Tramping desperately home with his empty basket in his hand, he heard the sound of wheels behind him, dragging slowly through the deep sand. Perhaps that was the Sheriff coming to arrest him. Dan's heart beat harder, but he did not look around. The wheels came nearer; they stopped, and some one said:
"Hullo, Daniel! been fishin'? Fisherman's luck, hey? Well, jump in here, and I'll give ye a lift."
Before Dan knew it he was over the wheel and sitting beside Deacon Skinner in the old chaise, with Whitey switching his tail right and left as he plodded along.
"Git up, Whitey," urged the Deacon; "it's getting along toward chore-time. Whitey ain't so spry as he used to be, but he's amazin' smart. This mornin' I left little Nanny in the shay while I was making a dicker with Solomon Murray, and a keerless thing it was to do, but I'd as soon expected the meetin'-house to run away as Whitey. I reckon something must have scart him; but he just trotted off home as stiddy as if I'd been driving, and waited at the door for mother to come and get Nanny before he went to the barn."
"Oh, Deacon Skinner," burst out Dan, "it was me; I scart Whitey."
"Did ye now, sonny? Well, there wuzn't any harm done, and I know ye didn't mean to."
"I did, I did," said Dan, sobbing violently from the long strain of excitement. "I didn't know Nanny was in the chaise, and I threw a stone at him."
"Well, well," said the Deacon, rubbing his stubbly chin, and looking curiously at Dan. "Beats all what freaks boys will take, but I know ye won't do it agin."
"I never will," said Dan, solemnly. "This has been the awfulest longest day that ever was in the world."
[ABOUT CROTCHETS AND QUAVERS.]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
I well remember the first morning I ever spent in a foreign Conservatory of Music. I arrived just as the Harmony Class had assembled. Beside me sat a slim little girl, with a very pretty pale face and a tired, anxious look. When we had all opened our books, she whispered to me, "May I look over you?"
The expression in her eyes was so piteous that it went to my heart to answer, "You may if you like, dear; only it won't help you. I don't know much of anything myself."
I never shall forget her look as she burst into a silent fit of crying, which for ten minutes stopped the lesson.
Often since I have thought of my little worried companion, who struggled on through the winter, always declaring she could not learn because she could not like it, and I have wondered if there were not a great many young students who feel in the same way.
It is so stupid to hear of semibreves and crotchets and quavers and minims and scales and clefs and scores, and all sorts of terms like "allegro" and "andante" and "con moto" and "adagio," and, indeed, whole Italian sentences, that used to look to me when I was a child like impertinent intrusions into English music.
But have you ever thought whether this system of music which we have to-day may not have had a story—a far-off story almost as entrancing as a fairy tale?
I think had some one told my little friend the story of the system she was toiling to understand, it would all have looked very different, and the study would have been tinged with a real delight.
Now what I propose to tell you is the history of the notes we use. This is really an introduction to the study of thorough-bass, or harmony; and if you make yourself complete master of the first simple rules or ideas, you will find later that many seemingly difficult things come almost instinctively.
You know, of course, how music is written to-day—the five lines; the division of bars; the arrangement of time; the value of notes. Of course you can easily understand that such a perfect system did not come without years of trial of various methods, and centuries of experiment, and a very crude sort of music.
Away back in early Oriental times there was music at festivities, triumphs, or times of mourning, and from the Greeks came the first ideas of harmony. You see, directly music came to be written down, it was evident that some sort of a system had to be established.
Fig. 1.—The Neumæ.
In very early ages musical sounds were represented by the letters of the alphabet. These were the days when good St. Gregory had singing-schools in ancient Rome. The singers chanted psalms and other church music, which must have been very solemn and beautiful.
This system came to an end, however, and was replaced by the use of a series of characters. These were called neumæ, and each character had a different name. The first was known as the virga, and it was a long single note; the bivirga represented two notes; the trivirga, three; the punctus was a short note, etc.
Now I have culled out of an old volume some illustrations showing how music was written in ancient times, and I want you to study them, and see how curious the methods were which preceded our present perfect system.
Fig. 2.
Fig. 1 shows the neumæ. There are ten here, but authorities differ as to the number that were really in use. These neumæ were placed over the words, as shown in Fig. 2. We are not quite certain what melody they here represent, but the solution given underneath is the probable one:
The first idea of making lines occurred in the year 900. But for a long time only one red line was used, and on this the F note was written; the grave sounds were placed below this line, the acute ones above it. How this music looked when written you will see in Fig. 3.
Fig. 3.
Probable Solution.
Early in the tenth century a monk in Flanders named Hucbaldus introduced a stave, as we call it, consisting of a great number of lines. At first these lines were not occupied by notes, but by the syllables to be sung, as shown in Fig. 4. In order to show whether the voice was to proceed by a tone or a semi-tone, the letters T and S were introduced. One advantage attending this system was that it could be applied to a scale of any extent, and even used for a number of voices singing at the same time.
Fig. 4.
Solution.
In the Bodleian Library at Oxford, England, is a very precious old book, once used in the cathedral at Winchester. It is MS., of course, and is believed to have been written during the reign of King Ethelred II., who died in 1016. In it we find music written in two different fashions, as shown in Fig. 5. This, then, was the period of change. We have the simple neumæ above the words, and we have actually a four-line stave with notes instead of words.
Fig. 5.
But up to this time all the notes were the same; no difference in length was indicated, and no one who had not heard the melody could sing it from them. Presently the breve, semibreve, and dot, as shown in Fig. 6, began to appear, and thus, little by little, our own system of notation was approached. In 1600 an Italian named Franco de Colonia established a system of time, and in or about 1600 the first idea of a score originated.
Fig. 6.
Do you know what a score is? I was at a concert rehearsal in Paris one day, when a very knowing-looking young person of about fourteen, with a great deal of fur and velvet on, and a large roll of music, came in with her governess, and sat down near me. The orchestra were going to give part of Faust, with some singing, and this pert young lady turned to her governess, saying,
"Don't you want the score, Miss ——," and forthwith she handed her the programme.
Now I think it would have been much wiser for this small person to have first been sure what a score was before she talked of it. The origin of the score was in 1600. A composer named Peri published his Euridice, and he put the instrumental accompaniment below the vocal part. Then he scored bars through the stave, connecting the words and music. Hence we call the music and words together the score of the work.
As music began to progress—as oratorios, masses, and operas were written—it became necessary to establish a definite system of time. It was done gradually; but at last, in Bach's day, it was a carefully arranged science; so many beats to the bar, so much value to each note.
Here we have finally a whole well-disciplined little army of crotchets and quavers and minims and semibreves, and all the big and little notes.
A grand science has come from those first queer little attempts at written music, which we find it so hard to understand to-day, and yet how grateful we ought to be to the patient people of the seventh and tenth centuries who tried to record some of their musical feelings!
When you sit down to your first harmony lesson, try to remember what a wonderful story those little black notes could tell. It is not dull or colorless work. Listen to the word "allegro," which comes in your first piece, I am sure. What does it make you think of? Some long-ago Christmas-tide, when all music was written to glorify God, when out upon the night in the dim cathedral aisles were poured forth the praises of the Infant Lord.
FLOWN.
[A DEER HUNT IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.]
BY J. M. MURPHY.
The hero of the following adventure was a middle-aged hunter who trapped in the Bighorn Mountains. He knew as much about the habits of Indians and wild animals as any man I ever met. I had accepted an invitation to visit his camp, and thus found myself many a mile from civilization on the third day after leaving the line of the Union Pacific Railroad. He received me with all the cordiality of a Western hunter, and after he had hobbled my mustang and turned him loose to graze, he told me that he would start for the foot-hills in two hours, if I were not too tired to travel further that day. I replied that I was not, and in five hours from that time we were safely lodged in a brush hut on one of the long spurs of the Snowy Range. Having taken the precaution to look for Indian signs, we retired to bed at an early hour. But our sleep was disturbed so much by the weird howling of packs of hungry coyotes that we might as well have sat up all night.
We breakfasted, long before dawn, by the light of the camp fire. The morning being exceedingly chilly, we started out as soon as it was light enough to enable us to see the ground distinctly; but though we walked rapidly, I found my teeth chattering despite all my efforts to stop them, while my breath curled slowly upward in the air as if it were a miniature Russian bath.
Our route led us through a dark chasm, so terrible in its cavernous gloom that I believe my teeth chattered a little more, while the silence was so oppressive that I felt as if I had the nightmare.
We finally reached the summit of the chasm, and entered a pine forest, where the antlered monarchs of the mountains were supposed to reign; but after walking for half an hour, we failed to find any of them. Meanwhile the clouds poured down a shower that wet us to the skin, and as it froze as it fell, we were almost benumbed with cold. We trudged onward, however, and trod as lightly on the crackling bushes as if they were eggs, and deer were concealed in every leaf.
Walking as carefully as we could, we peered into every bush for the large black eyes of our intended victims. When we reached a coppice of trees that skirted a thread-like brook, my companion stopped suddenly, and pointed ahead. Looking in the direction indicated, I saw a group of deer partially hidden in dense shrubbery. The leader of the party, a magnificent stag, held his head proudly erect, and listened attentively for the footsteps of a foe, while the dear little ladies of his family daintily nibbled at some tender leaves, feeling safe under his powerful protection.
The hunter fired at the stag so quickly that the whole band had disappeared amid a shower of leaves before I thought of lifting my rifle.
"Hit," was all my companion said as he dashed after the fugitives. I followed him, but I was soon left so far in the rear that I could neither see nor hear him.
Not liking the idea of being left alone, I kept running aimlessly on. I wanted to shout for him, but dared not; so I wandered hither and thither. I crossed one cañon, and was about to recross it, when I heard a shot on the opposite side. Looking in that direction, I saw the hunter, rifle in hand, standing over the prostrate form of the stag. I was about to join him, when I was astounded by seeing the apparently dead animal spring to its feet, charge the hunter in the most desperate manner, knock him down, and stamp on him. The assailed man responded to this challenge by drawing his knife, and plunging it into the neck of his assailant. I was so stupefied at the attack that I looked on for some time before I realized the danger of the situation; but when I recovered my wits I hastened to my friend's assistance. It took me some time to reach him, and when I did, I found him and the deer lying on the ground close together. The latter was dead, and the hunter seemed to be, for his clothes were badly torn, he was covered with blood, and the ground for a radius of several yards was trampled as if a band of gladiators had been using it for a battle-ground.
On examining my friend I found that he was wounded in the chest, arms, and legs, and completely exhausted by the struggle. I gave him a drink of water, which so revived him that he was soon able to sit up and tell me of his terrible struggle for life. It was, it seems, up to the last moment a question which would prove the victor, for whatever advantage his knife gave the hunter was more than counterbalanced by the powerful antlers of his assailant, which were used in the most effective manner. The hunter was about giving up the struggle, from exhaustion, when, by a lucky blow, he cut the jugular vein of his adversary, and both fell almost together.
When he finished his description of the contest, I led him to the stream, where his wounds were washed. Finding after a while that he was strong enough to walk, we returned to camp, leaving the slain animal as food for carnivorous birds and beasts. We staid in camp that night, and returned to his home the next day, where he received such primitive treatment as his half-breed wife could give him. From the nearest railway station I sent him bandages and medicines by a messenger. I have since learned that he was confined to the house for several months, and that it was only his splendid constitution which enabled him to recover. But he is only a wreck of what he was, and is totally unfit to follow his former arduous profession. Such are some of the pleasures of the chase.