A good way to introduce children to a composer is by combining the story of his life with selections from his work, as in the following story about Schubert. This method may be applied to the study of any composer. Libraries are rich in materials, and the talking-machine companies bring the music within the reach of all; so there is no reason why the story-teller should not do his part in making our nation a music-loving land, as well as give pleasure to the children under his guidance.
“Whoever puts a beautiful thought or melody into the world,” writes an Indian poet, “gives more than a diamond of Golconda.” Whoever helps a child to understand and enjoy beautiful thoughts and melodies, gives in almost as great a measure as their creator. He too is a builder, leaving behind him something fit to stand, and labor of that kind does not go unrequited.
A BOY OF OLD VIENNA
Little Franz could hardly wait for the sun to rise. He had lain awake all night thinking of what morning would bring, and it seemed as if the long, dark hours would never end. But now it was dawn, and he knew that very soon the sun would gild the hilltops, and then the thing of which he had dreamed for days would come to pass.
“Are you up, Franz?” his mother called from below.
“Yes,” he answered cheerily, “up and dressing.”
The mother smiled at him as he ran down into the kitchen, for she knew how eagerly he had looked forward to this day. Josef, the kindly neighbor, had promised to take him that very morning to a warehouse where many fine pianos were kept, and he would spend hours among the beautiful instruments there. No wonder he was glad! The one his father provided for him was cheap and harsh, for Herr Schubert was just a poor schoolmaster and had few coins to spend for anything besides food and clothing. But that did not keep Franz from doing wonders with his music. He learned all he could from his brothers, and worked away at the poor piano because he could not help it. Now that he was soon to touch the keyboard of a really splendid instrument, he felt like a prince in a fairy tale.
They went out of the house and along the dingy street in which the Schuberts lived. Across the Danube they passed by the old stone bridge that led to the Ringstrasse, then northward into that part of the city where the warehouses stood. Groups of citizens in holiday attire hurried by, and now and then some great lord or lady in a fine carriage passed them on the way to worship at St. Stephen’s. But Franz thought only of reaching the warehouse, and he walked so fast that Josef, who was short and fat, began to grow red in the face and pant, and he was quite as glad as the boy when they reached the building.
Franz lost no time in getting to a piano. Sunday comes just once a week, and another would not come for seven long days. He sat down at one of the lovely instruments, playing and singing as if nothing in the world mattered so much as music. He was only eleven years old, and boys of that age usually want to be out with others, engaged in the sports and games boys love. But not so with Franz Schubert. He was happiest at his music. He played and played and was so busy that he did not see a stranger come into the warehouse or hear his voice in earnest conversation with Josef.
“You say he has had no music masters?” the man asked wonderingly.