The Merivale banks

by Mary Jane Holmes

“She is airy and graceful as a bird, and by far the best dancer here, if I am any judge,” he thought, and was glad that she had no lack of partners.

Every young man who did not know her asked to be presented, and invited her to dance, until she had a surfeit of it and began to feel tired, and was glad when Herbert came to her with a request from Miss Percy that she would sing something for those who did not dance.

“I have told Blanche about your voice, and she is anxious to hear it,” he said.

Louie was nearly as ready to sing as to dance, and her voice had that bird-like quality which too much training sometimes spoils by taking away its naturalness. All her life she had been in the habit of imitating the birds, succeeding so well that it was sometimes difficult to tell whether it were herself trilling the roundelay or the robin, sitting on a high branch of a tree, with his head bent in a listening attitude as if trying to decide whether the sounds he heard were human or came from some new-comer in the field. She had had several months of instruction in vocal music, but her best teachers had been the birds, and especially her canary, whose notes she imitated so closely that he often stopped in his song for an instant, and then, as if reassured, began again with her, the two voices blending together without a discord on her part, so accurately did she follow him. One song, whose music she had changed to suit her voice, she called her bird-song, as it gave scope to her especial talent, and ended with a medley of sounds—the twitter of the sparrow, the robin’s whistle, the oriole’s notes, and the tones of her canary when in its happiest mood.

“Give us the bird-song, by all means,” Herbert said, when she asked what she should sing, and in a moment Louie was standing in the music-room, facing as large an audience as she had left in the dancing-hall.

They were mostly elderly people from the city, who, tired of watching the dancers, were glad of any new diversion, although a few yawned behind their fans when told that the girl in white muslin, who stood by the piano, was to sing for them.

The Worcester people, who were accustomed to hear the finest singers, and looked upon their city as the head centre for all that was best in music, wondered what this little country girl could do in that line to interest them. It would probably be some simple ditty, sung either in a nasal or loud, harsh strain, with contortions of the body; but they were well bred, and must listen and affect to be pleased.

Some were still talking in low tones when Louie struck a few notes upon the piano and began, quietly, without contortions of body or face, and without any apparent effort, except that the cords of her throat expanded and stood out full and round, when, in the chorus, her voice rose higher and clearer and was more and more like a bird’s, or many birds’, making some of the audience look around to see if a stray robin or canary had not alighted near them and was joining in the song. The music-room was so far from the dancing-room that one did not interfere with the other, but not so far that the clear, ringing notes were not heard by the dancers above the sounds of violin and horn; and, before she was through, half of those not dancing were crowding around the music-room to catch a sight of the singer.

“It’s the girl who saved the bank. She must be a marvel,” they said, as they saw her bowing in acknowledgment of the storm of applause which greeted her when the song was finished.

Among them was Fred Lansing, whose hands were nearly blistered, so loud and long-continued were his encores as he made his way to the front until he stood very near to her. He had been persuaded to waltz with a girl from Boston, who tried to make him a pillow, but he drew back from her and was so awkward every way besides getting his feet entangled in her dress that she was quite as glad as he when it was over. He knew Louie was singing and was impatient to get to her.