“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning towards the door—“farewell to you!”
“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.
He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly; “I shall come again, and give the young lady some lessons. Farewell! I shall soon come again!”
They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.
“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it.”
We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that “Moonlight Sonata” with which we are all so fondly acquainted.—Anonymous.
Go to the ant, thou sluggard;
Consider her ways, and be wise:
Which having no chief, overseer, or ruler,
Provideth her meat in the summer,
And gathereth her food in the harvest.
—From “The Book of Proverbs.”
THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS
Whither away, Robin,
Whither away?
Is it through envy of the maple leaf,
Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,
Thou wilt not stay?
The summer days were long, yet all too brief
The happy season thou hast been our guest:
Whither away?