When you meet a Fox, there are nine surprises. Five of them are his and the other four are yours. You may be looking for him, but he is not looking for you; consequently, he is more surprised than you are.
The following Summer, when I went to my cabin, I found it occupied. By this time I should have been accustomed to such things, but, strangely enough, I was not. To make it worse, the new occupant was not one I could turn out, being a relation. He had been a distant relation hitherto, but was now a near one.
Our family has intermarried a great deal with the descendants of European royalties, and Uncle Antonio was of the great and well-known family of the Cæsars, who, if my readers will remember, used to rank high in Rome. The line of descent was somewhat blurred, it is true, but Uncle had a Roman nose and was given to roaming about the country.
By profession, he was a musician—one of those rarely talented people whose genius is infinitely above such minor details as technique. Rubenstein, according to his biographers, used to make bad mistakes in reading his own music, and nearly everyone who has played him has, at some time or other, followed in his gifted footsteps.
Uncle was another Rubenstein, as regards the mistakes. His soul, lifted above all mundane things, soared to meet the thought of the composer, and his fingers stumbled over the keys. This would not have bothered some people, but Uncle was sensitive and it annoyed him, so at length he had an instrument especially made to suit his own needs.
It was an organ of the regulation type, small and compact, yet with a glorious volume of tone that would have delighted Wagner. Connected with the interior by a wonderfully scientific system of levers, was the motive power. The superior form of the instrument made possible some changes in the manner of playing it.
Instead of pushing on the keys, in the ordinary, common way, my Uncle’s organ was played with a rotary sweep of the whole arm, the hand, meanwhile, firmly grasping the lever. This enabled him to put more expression into the music. I would like to say right here that my Uncle’s organ was invented long before the day of patent piano-players, and that we, as a family, have about decided to prosecute the makers of these cheap, clap-trap instruments, in behalf of Uncle Antonio.
It was gratifying to see Uncle’s face when he played. With all mechanical difficulties overcome, he was free to give his entire attention to the fine shadings and hidden meanings of the composition. It was pleasing, also, to note how close he came to the hearts of the people. Even the little children would come and stand around Uncle Antonio when he played upon his organ, and musicians in the neighbourhood, gnashing their teeth in jealous rage, would close their windows to keep my Uncle’s notable accomplishments from belittling their own. It is ever thus. Upon my own trail have sprung up a score or more of writers on Natural History—but I must not say more, lest I be thought too personal.
Uncle Antonio, also, was a lover of the wild animals. He had one pet, in particular, which meant much to him—a genuine African Monkey, imported at great expense and difficulty. He had taught the intelligent animal a great many cunning tricks—in fact, Jocko could do almost everything but speak. Through Jocko I had first come to an understanding of Uncle Antonio. There is an old saying to the effect that, in order to know a man, you must first meet his Dog, and then see them together. In the same way, you must have known Jocko in order to comprehend my Uncle.
I was within a quarter of a mile of my cabin, my pulses bounding with happy anticipation, when a low moan, which seemingly came from a broken heart, struck my ear. I paused and stood like a marble statue—a trick I had learned from my kindred of the wild. Then the curious sound was repeated.