Sweetened with sugar, and sprinkled with spice,
Apple turn-overs are really nice;
But make-believe pies are a great deal more fun,
When little cooks bake them out here in the sun.
With soft coaxing touches they mix up the dough—
Brown flour is said to be wholesome, you know;
And if little fingers shall gather a stain,
Why, water and soap will soon wash them again.
And after the wonderful baking is done—
The droll jolly baking out here in the sun—
The sweet little cooks will be happy to take,
If somebody give it, a good slice of cake.
[A PERSONATION: WHO AM I?]
BY E. M.
The 16th of last December was the one-hundred-and-tenth anniversary of my birth, and though I have been dead more than fifty years, I think I am as much talked of now, if not more, than I was while living, and my works, instead of losing their hold on the attention of the public, seem to gain in favor. I was a born musician, and one whom now musicians delight to honor. My father and grandfather were musicians, and I, before I was four years old, had my daily hours of practice on the harpsichord. For some years my father was my teacher, but before I was eleven I had outgrown his teaching, and written some variations upon a march popular in those days; and by the time I was fifteen I had published three sonatas, and been appointed assistant organist at court. This office I held for a year or so, and then the Elector of Bonn, at whose court I was, sent me at his own expense to Vienna, there to study under Mozart. My mother's death soon called me back to Bonn, for I had two younger brothers, Caspar and Johann, to look after, and here I staid until 1792, when, having started Caspar as a music teacher and Johann in an apothecary's shop, I returned to Vienna, and never left it again for any length of time. I spent five happy years there, for I was a great favorite with the Viennese public, and my performances always excited attention. I studied with Haydn, and began to compose with rapidity, for my idea for musical compositions always outran my capacity for writing them out. I had, however, a secret sorrow, which is believed to have shown traces in my works, but for some time I managed to conceal it, being proud and disdaining pity, but at last, in 1800, when sick, I was forced to write to my doctor: "My hearing has gradually been becoming weaker for three years past. I pass a wretched existence. For the last two years I have almost entirely shunned society, because it is impossible to tell people I am deaf."
Alas! there was no help for me, and at last I was unable to hear any music. Still I continued to write, and gain fame if not fortune; but my misfortunes were not over, for at my brother Caspar's death in 1815, he left me guardian to his only son, and from then until my death his conduct, though I always loved and forgave him, was to me a constant source of anxiety.
At last, worn out with work, worry, and trouble, I fell sick in the fall of 1826, and though tenderly cared for by friends, died on the 26th of December, during a furious thunder-storm, a most unusual event at that season of the year, and my life ended with the storm. My funeral was on the 29th, and was attended by such numbers that soldiers had to be called to force a way from the house to the church, and though but a short distance, it took the procession one hour and a half to reach the church. After the ceremonies there, my body was carried to the cemetery outside the gates of Vienna. Near my grave lie Schubert and Clement, my friends in life.
In 1863 the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde of Vienna decided to take charge of my grave, it having been neglected. They have laid a flat stone over the spot, surrounded it with an iron railing, and the obelisk they raised bears on it a lyre and my name, and the grave is always to be tenderly cared for.