“You goin’ to do one?” asked Uncle William.
“Yes, one.” She smiled at him.
“I’ll stay.” He settled back comfortably.
“That’s right. I must go now and speak to some of the mothers. They only come for the first half. They will be going home.” She moved away.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her admiringly. He turned to the old gentleman beside him. “Nice girl,” he said.
“She is a fine teacher,” responded the old gentleman. “She had not been here long, but she had a good following. She has temperament.”
“Has she?” Uncle William looked after her a little quizzically. “Makes ’em stand around does she? You can’t ever tell about temper. Sometimes it’s the quietest ones has the wust. But she makes ’em work good. You can see that.”
“Yes, she makes them work.” The old gentleman smiled upon him kindly and patronizingly. He had been born and brought up in New York. He was receptive to new ideas and people. There was something about Uncle William—a subtle tang—that he liked. It was a new flavor.
Uncle William studied his program. “Sounds more sensible’n some of it.” He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. “I can understand that, now, ’To an Old White Pine.’ That’s interestin’. Now that one there.” He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, “‘Opus 6, No. 2, A minor, All-e-gro.’ Now mebbe you know what that means—I don’t. But an ol’ white-pine tree—anybody can see that. We don’t hev ’em up my way—pine-trees. But I like ’em—al’ays did—al’ays set under ’em when they’re handy. You don’t hev many round here?”
The old gentleman smiled. “No; there are not many old white pines in New York. I can remember a few, as a boy.”