DOING SOMETHING.

BY ADA CARLETON.

"Something'll have to be done," said Merry; and he put his elbows on the table, and dropped his chin into his palms.

Beside Merry's elbows stood the remains of a very scanty breakfast. The remains were scanty too, consisting of a single roasted potato, a dish of salt, and a bit of bread. This was all the food there was in the little brown house by the creek where America Andrew and his mother lived. The rent, too, was a whole quarter in arrears, and Mr. Colley, their landlord, was beginning to screw up his lips and frown whenever he met them.

So, with all this in mind, it was small wonder that Merry, with his elbows on the table and his chin in his palms, decided "Something'll have to be done!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Andrew, looking into Merry's bright face which poverty had not been able to make a whit less plump or rosy, as if in hopes to catch a gleam of sunshine there.

Merry saw this, for he smiled a brave, bright smile back into his mother's faded blue eyes and care-worn face.

"Now don't you worry, mother. Summer's coming right along. Folks will be wanting their yards cleaned up. Mrs. Quipp told me last night, you know, if I'd clean hers up she'd have Mr. Quipp give credit for twenty-five cents on the grocery account. I'll go now, and I'll bring you half—the biggest half—of my dinner, sure."

With that Merry left a kiss on his mother's cheek, for he hadn't got over showing that he loved her very dearly, and trudged away up the hill, whistling "Bonnie Dundee" in his own merry way.

When he had left the gate a little way behind he heard the whistle of the down train, and it occurred to him that he would go round by way of the station and see if there wasn't a portmanteau to carry for somebody. There was not much hope of it, since the occasional stranger which the on-going train dropped into the sleepy old town usually preferred to carry his own luggage. But to-day, strange to relate, a gentleman stood on the platform with a large portmanteau in one hand, and a still larger valise in the other.

"Hello, my man!" he called; "can you give me a lift?"

"Yes, sir," answered Merry, shouldering the portmanteau and trying to appear as if carrying large packages were an every-day affair with him. This one, however, happened to be very heavy, even for its size, and he shifted it once or twice uneasily. The strange gentleman looked down at him with a quizzical twinkle, which Merry did not see.

"Don't do that again," said a very small voice from the interior of the portmanteau. "I've got feelings as well as other folks."

"Eh?" ejaculated Merry, gazing about in wide-eyed amazement.

"Yes, I have," pursued the small voice; "and I've a mind to punch your head for banging me so."

Merry gave a little gasp, and stopped. He put the portmanteau down gently, so astonished that he could not speak, because he never in all his life had heard a ventriloquist, and this Professor Wagner happened to be a remarkably good one.

"Well?" said the Professor, with an inquiring smile.

"I—I can't carry it," stammered Merry.

Professor Wagner laughed until his deep-set blue eyes were twinkling like stars on a frosty night.

"Never mind," said he; "Jack sha'n't trouble you any more; so pick up the portmanteau again, my lad. I show here to-night. Haven't you seen the bills?"

Merry, taking up his load, began to understand. He had seen the bills.

"Was it you, sir?" he asked, doubtfully.

"I think it was," answered the Professor, who was a very kind, genial gentleman. When they reached the hotel the Professor gave Merry a silver quarter. Then he said, with a laugh, "I think you've earned something more;" and he took from his pocket two sky-blue complimentary tickets. "Bring your mother, if she'll come," said he.

But Merry's mother shook her head at sight of the sky-blue tickets; and it was little Jack Hennessey whom one of them carried into enchanted land—little Jack, who might otherwise as well have wished for a trip to the moon.

How funny and fine it all was! How Merry held his breath, and clapped his hands, and laughed aloud, by turns, in his excitement, to see his friend the Professor pick eggs by the dozen from Mr. Colley's hat; and follow the eggs with feathers enough for a bed; and send Mr. Quipp's watch into Deacon Wilson's pocket, to the great discomfiture of the Deacon, and the great enjoyment of everybody else; and perform all manner of impossible feats with the ease of a veritable magician! And to cap the climax of his delight, Merry heard again the small voice which had spoken to him from the portmanteau—only now it was the very gruff voice of a very sleepy landlord whom the Professor was vainly trying to arouse.

Oh, it was wonderful! and Merry rehearsed it so faithfully to his mother that she declared it was much better than seeing it herself with not half the trouble. And he went over it all again in dreams, and his mind was still full of it when he ran up to the hotel next morning to carry the Professor's portmanteau to the station. The Professor, walking along beside him, and looking down at Merry's face, laughed to see the unfeigned admiration in the black eyes.

"Why don't you get up something of the sort," he asked, "and ask the boys round five cents a-piece to go in? I used to earn a good many dimes that way when I was a youngster." And when they reached the station, and found that the train was not in, the Professor emphasized his advice by one or two simple lessons in sleight-of-hand. "Now all you need is practice on that," said he. "Here's my train. Good-by. Be a good boy, and take care of your mother." And that was the last of Professor Wagner.

But it wasn't the last of the Professor's idea, which grew and grew until it filled Merry's head completely, and ran over at his lips when he stopped to expend the precious thirty-five cents at Mr. Quipp's counter on his way home. And Mr. Quipp, who might not have been altogether disinterested, said:

"You'd better tidy up my place overhead, Merry, and use that for your fandango. I've been wantin' it cleared out this good while."

Well, I haven't space to tell you of all the doings in all the days that followed—how Merry, after having obtained his mother's consent to a trial of his project, went to work with Jack Hennessey and one or two other boys; how he soon became well skilled in a few simple sleight-of-hand performances; how Mr. Quipp's place was tidied up, and a little platform arranged at one end, after the Professor's model; how at length the boy public came to understand, by means of an immense placard printed in burnt cork, that Merry Andrew would give an entertainment, to include speeches, recitations, sleight-of-hand tricks, and ventriloquism, in Mr. Quipp's chamber, on the night of April 1; that the admission price would be five cents for boys, and ten cents for grown folks, and that if anybody was not satisfied he should have his money back.

Everybody was interested, for Merry was well liked by everybody in town; and when the first night of April came, there were not a few people in the little room over Mr. Quipp's shop.

Merry's heart jumped into his throat, choking him, and bringing the tears to his eyes, when he stood on the little platform behind the lamp which Mr. Quipp had loaned for the occasion. But he went bravely through with his simple performances—with the ring trick, and the magic coin trick, in which a big copper could never be found when looked for, but turned up in the most unexpected places. Then there were speeches, some funny and some otherwise. Then there was more sleight-of-hand. And how everybody laughed when Merry, having gained a great deal of courage, borrowed Mr. Colley's hat, and pulled out of it a pair of stockings, a bunch of feathers, a green silk handkerchief, and several other things.

The entertainment was pretty well concluded, but on the platform was a box, bottom up, not more than eight inches high, but perhaps twice eight inches square. Upon this box Merry, his eyes shining with excitement, knocked.

"Hello, Jack," said he.

"What do you want?"

How everybody started, and leaned forward, and stared at everybody else then!

"I want my cat," said Merry.

"I ain't got yer cat."

"Yes you have. Hear that?" and Merry turned triumphantly to his audience, as there sounded an unmistakable "Me-ow."

"I tell you that boy's a genius," whispered Mr. Colley, excitedly, to Mr. Quipp. "He might make a fortune. He beats Wagner all to pieces."

The mock dialogue went briskly on; and Merry's eyes sparkled as his demand for his cat grew more and more eager, and Jack's refusal grew more and more decided, and the cat added her voice to the general tumult, and the whole small audience got upon its feet with a rustling, excited murmur, and at last—

"You're a coward," cried Merry, with a great deal of make-believe anger. "Take it up, if you dare."

Quick as a flash away went the box, and out popped, like a veritable Jack-in-the-box, the head and shoulders of Jack Hennessey, who, getting very much in earnest, had forgotten his part, and let his temper run away with him.

"Take yer cat, then!" he cried, and he pulled a big black cat up through the hole in the platform, where he was standing, and flung her at Merry. And then, because his temper had suddenly cooled, he doubled himself into his place again; but not before the murmur had grown into a rushing, roaring shout, which threatened to carry Mr. Quipp's roof completely away. And somebody called out, "Fraud!"

"It isn't fraud," cried Merry, in his loudest tone. "Jack was going to show himself, though not so soon. It was only for fun and an April-fool. That's why I said I'd pay back if anybody wanted me to."

But nobody wanted him to. The first day of April was a day of jokes in Cherrythorpe. Even Mrs. Quipp, who was old enough to know better, had given Mr. Quipp cornmeal mustard on his boiled beef for dinner; and Mrs. Deacon Wilson had treated her family to a baked saw-dust pudding.

And Merry—surely Merry had fooled them all with his "Jack" and his cat.

"How about that fortune Merry's going to make, eh, neighbor?" cried Mr. Quipp, clapping Mr. Colley's shoulder. "Well, well, I don't say he won't do it some day."

Mr. Quipp was right. The little store of dimes and half-dimes helped Merry and his mother over the hard places and into smoother ways. And years after, when Merry's industry and genial ways had carried him through school, and made him a great business man, the day came when the people of the State in which he lived called him "Governor Andrew."

[AN APRIL JOKE.]

BY M. D. BRINE.

Master Ned on the door-step sat,
Busily thinking away.
"Now what shall I plan for a clever trick
For an April-fool to play?
There's Tom, he's mean as a boy can be,
And he never can pass me by
Without a word that is rude and cross,
And maybe a punch on the sly.
"Some trick I'll find that'll pay him off
And teach him a lesson too."
So Master Ned he pondered awhile,
Till the dimples grew and grew,
And he laughed at last as away he ran.
"I'll make him sorry," thought he,
"For the many times he has done his best
To tease and to trouble me."
On April first, with the early dawn,
Was found at Tommy's door
A package tied, and "Master Tom"
Was the only address it bore.
"'Tis only a trick of Ned's," said Tom;
"He owes me many a one;
But I'll match him yet—he'd better beware—
Before the day is done."
Then Tom peeped in at his package. Oh,
What a shamefaced fellow was he!
A handsome book, and a line which read,
"Accept this, Tom, from me."
And this was the way in which Tom was "fooled";
And afterward, meeting Ned,
"Your trick has beaten all mine for good—
Forgive me, old fellow," he said.

[THE STORY OF THE OPERA.]

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

One evening toward the close of the sixteenth century, a group of gentlemen were hurrying up the staircases and along the corridors of a house in Florence.

They were richly dressed, according to the custom of the time. But they were all students, all deeply absorbed in music, and they were on their way to the salons of one Giovanni Bardi, Conte di Vernio, for the purpose of discussing a new idea in their beloved art.

Now if we followed these gentlemen, what should we hear and see? Something very interesting, but, from our point of view to-day, very strange; for they were determined to develop opera, yet they had but the vaguest idea how it should be done.

Opera in its present form had so far been unheard of. The only idea these Italian gentlemen had of it was from the Greek lyrical dramas. You know that in ancient Athens there was a famous theatre where plays were given, accompanied by an orchestra of lyres and flutes. The chorus of the Agamemnon was sung, and some of the dialogue was given in a sort of recitative. Then, in early English times, music, or recitatives was introduced into the simple plays usually performed in the public streets. People in various countries had been gifted with some perception of the beauty of music and dialogue, but a regular opera, as I have said, was unknown.

Our Italian gentlemen discussed this idea over and over again, and some efforts were made to carry it out. One of these gentlemen, named Caccini, wrote a series of songs or "pieces," which he sang at Bardi's house one evening, accompanying himself on the lute. He had a beautiful voice, and every one was delighted.

Little by little the idea of a musical drama gathered strength, and one of the first performances we read of was at Mantua, in 1594, when a curious sort of work called L'Amfiparnasso was given. We who have seen opera in its perfection would be, I am sure, highly amused could we hear L'Amfiparnasso given just as it was then.

There were five voices, no overture, and no instrumental accompaniment of any kind. But when two singers were on the stage, the remaining three stood behind the scenes singing a sort of accompaniment. Everybody in Mantua was delighted, and L'Amfiparnasso was a great success.

What would dear old Master Vecchio, who wrote it, have said had he looked ahead nearly three hundred years, and seen the great Bayreuth Festival, where Wagner's operas were produced with such a wealth of orchestra and voices?

I think it safe to say that the first true Italian opera, on which all others have been founded, was Euridice, by Peri, and this was produced in 1600, when Henry IV. married Mary of Medicis. Several noblemen performed in it. Behind the scenes they had a sort of orchestra: a harpsichord, a chitarone,[1] a sort of viol, and a large lute. Three flutes were added to this little orchestra. I have just been reading part of the score, and it has much delicacy and spirit.

I have not space to tell you of the progress of the opera in Italy and Germany and France, but it advanced steadily, and in France, where a composer named Lulli lived in 1650, it reached a great height. Lulli had been brought from Florence as a page at the court of Louis XIV. He served the King's niece, Mademoiselle De Montpensier, and no doubt heard all the finest music in her boudoir. He it was who established the opera in France.

Among Italian composers of this early period, the man who seems to me most interesting was Alessandro Scarlatti. He made many improvements in the form of the opera, varying its monotony in very original ways.

Another famous Italian of the same period was Stradella, whose church music we hear now much more than formerly. Poor Stradella's life was a terribly sad one. He was a gentleman of great refinement, but he was not of the highest rank, so that when he fell in love with one of his pupils, whose rank was above his, there was a great deal of excitement over it in Venice. Stradella married his fair pupil, and for some years led a life of terror, as assassins pursued him. Once, we are told, three of these men, hired to kill him, followed him to the Church of St. John, in Rome, where he was to sing, and there, listening to his heavenly voice, their purpose changed. His music took away all their blood-thirsty feelings. But he was not destined to escape the vengeance of his wife's friends. In Genoa, after repeated attempts on Stradella's life, he and his wife were both cruelly stabbed to death, the assassins escaping. Stradella was only in his thirtieth year, but he had written some of the finest music in Italy.

I could tell you much of the rise and progress of opera in England, but in our short space must group a few facts about some one centre. The English seemed from very early times to delight in combining music with dialogue. They used, as I have said, to give performances in the public streets. The singers stood in large carts, around which crowds of people collected. With all their grotesqueness and absurdity there was a dignity about them which impressed their rude audiences.

In 1658 was born in London a boy named Henry Purcell. Music seemed to grow with him. When he was very young he was put into the choir school at Westminster Abbey, and it was only the other day I was standing in the old school-room where the boy Purcell sat, and looking at a quaint old picture of him which hangs upon the wall.

The Westminster boys were taught music very fairly by old Cook and Humphries. It must have been a cheerful life. To-day the school has been enlarged and beautified, but even then it surely possessed the charm of peace, and yet great harmonies, for it stands almost in the shelter of the Abbey, and all day long the boys had the dear old cloisters to run about in, and twice a day they listened to glorious music on the organ. Purcell grew full of musical fire, and when he was eighteen he was appointed organist of the great Abbey. He wrote constantly—catches, glees, songs, and hymns, which to this day are listened to and sung with delight.

It was when Purcell was about nineteen that he one day received an invitation from a school-master to call, on musical business, at his house in Chelsea. Thither he went. He found a young ladies' school, and an energetic master who wished his pupils to perform something operatic. So Purcell wrote the music, and Tate the words, of Dido and Æneas, a little operetta, in which he himself performed, and which was so successful that henceforth he wrote chiefly for the stage.

But all the time everybody in London was singing or playing his glees and madrigals. In Westminster was a famous old tavern known as Purcell's Head, and clubs used to meet there to sing his music. Meanwhile we can fancy Milton as a youth playing his most solemn music in that quaint room of his with its faded hangings and grand organ, and at the theatre elaborate performances of The Tempest, The Indian Queen, and other plays, to which was added "Mr. Purcell's musicke."

Those were rollicking and riotous times. Purcell's sweet music seems to come in with some feeling of soothing sounds, but had the times been better, he would have done more, I am sure, in his noblest direction. Everything at court and around it was careless and reckless. Dryden, the poet, who wrote many of the plays for which Purcell furnished music, bitterly regretted when he was older that he had wasted so much time amusing an ungodly people. Purcell seems only to have thought of his music, and certainly at this date, two hundred years after his death, his sweetness and charm are as strongly felt. In 1695 he died, and his tomb is in the Abbey where his childish feet so often passed and repassed, and beneath the organ where he so often played in his most innocent and most happy years.

Opera seems from the end of the seventeenth century to have gone on gaining new force and beauty in every country, and to-day it is supposed by some critics to have attained its highest form in Wagner's music. I fear those eager Italian gentlemen who used to meet in Conte Vernio's brilliant rooms would be very much alarmed by some of the German operas of to-day, and I own that, with all love of Wagner's great music, there is a peculiar charm in the old airs of operas which people try to scoff at now. Ten minutes ago an organ-grinder stopped under my window and began droning out "Ai nostri morte," that sweet air in Verdi's Trovatore, and I felt as if it was very near the Italy of the seventeenth century. But this must not make you think that Wagner has not science and strength and the utmost beauty on his side.