Part 9

Oh, gladly we'll work with you By loving one and all Dear children of all races, Of nations great and small. And we all hope to bring on earth Your messenger, PEACE-DOVE, Through throwing out our ether rays OF UNIVERSAL LOVE.

AN ODE TO A FAITHFUL DOG DUBBED PICKLES

[_Best Friend of Mr. Thomas Shipp, Washington, D. C._]

Not half so cute is any maid As PICKLES. He puts us all deep in the shade, Does PICKLES. For though he boasts of years not four To canine heights he well can soar On wings he's found in Knowledge-Store, Wise PICKLES.

He always has a wagging tail, KIND PICKLES. His Master Shipp he'll never fail, Staunch PICKLES. And that is why all folks who meet This clever dog in home or street Declare there is no one so sweet AS PICKLES.

PEACE FORERUNNER--"LOVE MANKIND."

Little birdie, whispering here, Tell me, does sweet peace draw near?

Little girl, I sadly fear Peace will not bring Christmas cheer While you mortals are so blind To love your country, not your kind, Peace can never dwell on earth, Bringing comfort, joy and mirth, Until UNIVERSAL LOVE Paves the way for sweet Peace Dove.

Then, sweet bird, help me to bear Your good message everywhere, Begging friends to keep in mind PEACE FORERUNNER--"LOVE MANKIND."

MUSIC

[_These musical jingles were written for my teacher, Miss Matilda Orr Hays, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania._]

There's music, music everywhere On sea and land and in the air. It sounds from all things far and near And brings the weary rest and cheer. 'Tis in the rose and every flower; 'Tis in the storm and gentle shower; 'Tis in the waters of the brook And every pleasant shady nook. We hear its notes within the trees And in the hum of busy bees. 'Tis in the song of every bird And in the voice of woman heard. But best of all 'tis in our hearts And there Love's message it imparts, For MUSIC is the tongue of Love, The fairest gift from realms above.

ROBERT FRANZ

[_1815-1892._]

By sweet love, the angel's gift, Was Robert Franz inspired To write sweet songs of home and love Of which we're never tired.

Since Schubert's time no other man Produced sweet songs so many And for a number of these songs He did not get a penny.

Songs two hundred seventy-nine This music genius wrote But ere he died like Beethoven He could not hear a note.

And with his right arm paralyzed He could not even play And Liszt for him gave concerts To keep the wolf away.

He died in abject poverty, From grief almost insane But left his songs to cheer us And drive away our pain.

NATURE'S MUSIC

Where is Nature's music heard? In hum of insect, song of bird, In wailing of the wind at night, In splashing of the wavelets bright In angry howls when breakers roar Against the rocks upon the shore.

'Tis in the Storm God's tearful moan; In human voices' every tone. When Jupiter his thunder rolls 'Tis Nature's music bell that tolls, But only those with perfect ear True sounds of Nature's Music hear.

FRÉDÉRIC FRANÇOIS CHOPIN

[_Born at Zelazowa-Wola, near Warsaw, Poland--1809-1849._]

Though French blood flowed in Chopin's veins His music was of Polish strains As he was born in a Polish town, Which for its name should win renown; And Zelazowa-Wola stood Above all cities great and good In favor with great Chopin who Was to his birthplace ever true.

When scarcely eight great Fame began To court him ere he was a man. But Fate was cruel as well as kind. In love affairs he did not find The comfort that his great soul sought And which to him could have been brought By only one, a lady wise, George Sand, with "hazel, big cow eyes."

Oft when we hear his waltzes sweet, "Come dance, come dance," call to our feet 'Tis hard indeed for us to think That Chopin oft stood on the brink Of dreadful Melancholy's lair, Where in great anguish and despair, So sick in body, mind and soul, With only Death as his sure goal, Sweet and lively airs he wrote And filled with joy his every note.

For ten long years the white plague sought To take his life--for health he fought, But when his sweetheart left his side He ceased his fight and soon he died.

THE GREATEST KINGS OF MUSIC LAND

The six greatest kings of sweet Music Land Are Beethoven, Mozart and Wagner the grand; Great Handel and Bach and Haydn as well, Who cast o'er the earth its musical spell.

GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL

[_Born at Halle in Saxony--1685-1759._]

Of all music masters of whom you've heard tell Great Handel was happiest for he was well, Tall, handsome and wealthy, generous and kind, Cheerful in heart and clever in mind. Pinching dread poverty he never knew; Surrounded by comforts from childhood he grew; Though early in life as a very small lad He wasn't content nor yet very glad Because his stern father treated with scorn His belief that for music he had been born. Alone in an attic he practised each day; Without any teacher he learned how to play Until he was heard by a good kindly duke, Who gave to Herr Handel a stinging rebuke And made him consent, this father so stern, That technique of music the young son should learn.

To England George went when to manhood grown, Adopting this country as his very own. He was loved by the people of most every clime And busy and happy just all of the time. In days scarcely fifteen he wrote his great _Saul_, And in nineteen more he had finished all Of _Israel in Egypt_ in whose every tone The work of a master of music is shown. And in but two weeks 'tis said that he wrote His wondrous _Messiah_ complete in each note.

But work without rest from morning till night Deprived him, like Bach, of precious eye-sight. For seven long years great Handel was blind, But lost not his genius nor bright cheerful mind. He worked every hour until his last breath Was taken away by the cold Angel Death. His body in Westminster Abbey was laid, But the works of his genius will no, never fade.

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN

[_Born in Bonn, Germany--1770-1827._]

Life is a blossom of sorrow and fun And Beethoven's sorrow was early begun. His father was cruel, no pleasure he had, No wonder that much of his music is sad. He lived in Vienna, which seldom he left; Of most earthly joys this poor soul bereft. The gods had deprived him of beauty of face, His manners atrocious brought him disgrace. No money had he and for many a year Of music he loved no sound could he hear.

No wife to adore him, no children had he To bring to his home "The Good Fairy Glee." In rags and in sorrow and always alone He walked in the fields where, with pitying moan, He prayed he might hear the song of the trees And sweet fairy whispers as borne on the breeze. His prayers were not answered and no sound he heard Of brooklets or breezes or sweet singing bird. No wonder from earth he was glad to depart, Dying, 'tis said, from a real broken heart.

JOHANNES BRAHMS

[_Germany--1833-1897._]

Wagner once said "There are but three B's In musical circles known, Beethoven, Bach and Brahms the good As masters stand alone."

Brahms's mother was a real old maid Whom his young father wed. In years full seventeen or more She well could rank ahead.

But peace and love reigned in this home And so Johannes grew Into a gentle kindly lad Who loved all whom he knew.

When Schumann heard this boy play In rapture he cried out-- "Behold our new Messiah, For him the world should shout!"

For many years this good man stood At Clara Schumann's side While she was fighting poverty When her dear husband died.

He helped her rear her children, With her in concerts played And loved her with a pure true love By the immortal made.

And when she died he had no wish To live his life alone And welcomed Death to come his way And claim him as his own.

JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH

[_Born at Eisenbach in Germany--1685-1750._]

In sixteen hundred eighty-five Long, long before you were alive, In the town of Eisenbach Was born Johann Sebastian Bach.

From his father ever kind And his brother he did find The key to enter Music Land, Which he found so sweet and grand.

No more industrious lad could be Than Johann, who loved "Industry." "The Mighty Master" he is known Of the organ's every tone.

Twice this music master wed And he was happy so 'tis said; But he worked both day and night Until at last he lost his sight.

Though he was blind he cheerful kept And o'er his sorrow never wept, And when he died he left a son, To shine for him when his work was done.

FRANZ JOSEPH HAYDN

[_Born in Rohrau, Austria--1732-1809._]

How often when a little chap On Haydn's shoulders fell the strap. E'er he was six as if a man His struggles with the world began. His parents could not write nor read. A cousin said, "I'll gladly feed And clothe young Joseph, who can sing And to my pockets money bring." But little food he gave to him And plenty of the sharp peach limb.

When Joe then lost his tuneful voice His cousin gave to him no choice But turned him out to earn his way-- 'Tis said he worked both night and day, And, working thus, young Haydn rose Far, far above his friends and foes.

Rich he became and gained great fame While all musicians love his name. His greatest work was _The Creation_ And artists of most every nation Ever bow down at his knee As "Father of the SYMPHONY."

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART

[_Born in Salzburg, Austria--1756-1791._]

Mozart, "The Glorious Boy", Rubenstein named him well, Was born with the gift of music, on him the mantel fell Of many great composers, who justly won a name, Though Mozart soared above them on pinnacles of fame. When as a tiny kiddie with birthdays not yet five He played his little violin as if it were alive, Composing wondrous music which was so grand and sweet That even queens and princes would fall down at his feet. His music flowed as easily as waters in a brook, And sparkled as bright sunbeams peeping in a nook. An opera he finished before his thirteenth year And when he was but fourteen musicians came to hear La Scala, greatest orchestra, which the world then had, As it was well directed by this inspired lad. The Pope conferred upon him the order "Golden Spur." Until he reached his sixteenth year nothing did deter This clever lad from mounting to highest realms of fame, Flowers rained upon him and life seemed but a game. And then came years of suffering when through Envy's stings And malice of musicians, who wished to clip his wings, He saw the dark and dreary and rocky road of life And soon he grew awearied of sickness, hunger, strife And discontent within his home, for Constance whom he wed, Was ever cross and ailing and spent her days in bed. And though he was still youthful, not more than thirty-five, When most of earthly children are glad to be alive, Poor Mozart, worn by constant work and worried by his wife, One dreary, dark December day to Death gave up his life. This great soul's earthly castle not one friend tried to save From an ignoble burial within a pauper's grave; And no one put a marker to show where it was laid, But the glory of great Mozart's works will never, never fade.

WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER

[_Born in Leipsic, Germany--1813-1883._]

In the midst of tumult and mixed up with strife The world renowned great Wagner spent most all his life. All around his birthplace the day that he was born Many thousand soldiers lay bleeding, cut and torn By the fiendish war god, who delights to slay. And after him came "Pestilence," who bore with her away The father of young Wagner, and as his mother had Seven other children no wonder that this lad Should grow up just like Topsy without a guiding hand, With no one to direct his steps and no one to command.

Then Fever wracked his body and he was very ill, But fairies came to comfort, sweet music to instil Into his wondrous fingers and in his kindly heart, Henceforth of all his life work to take the biggest part; Although in spite of music in rebel plans he mixed, And exile to Herr Wagner's name for long years was affixed.

Twice he sailed on Hymen's sea, and I have heard it said His first wife, Wilhelmina, proposed that he should wed. With her he knew no happiness in all his married life, For she was ever brewing the noxious stew of strife. But when Liszt's lovely daughter, the fair Casima, came, She filled his home with joy and also brought him fame. From her sweet inspiration his greatest work was made, The soul inspiring _Parsifal_, whose fame will never fade.

Death took him from the arms of his adoring wife. He passed away so peacefully, but left behind him strife Concerning the real merit of all he ever wrote. Some class him with divinities, some put him with the goat; Some love his mimic thunder and sighing of the breeze, While others say his music is but a bang and wheeze.

FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT

[_Born in Vienna, Austria--1797-1828._]

A poor schoolmaster was his pa, A common cook his scolding ma, Who was not one bit glad to see Her thirteenth child a boy wee, Who came one blustering wintry day Within her crowded house to stay.

Though Franz was cold and hungry too The Music Sprites his soul would woo And oft he wrote as in a trance Some lovely song in which perchance The singer seemed as blithe could be And filled with joyful ecstasy.

He loved a maid of high degree With whom he could not married be And while for this maid Caroline His beating heart with love did pine In one short year this song bird wrote Two symphonies in every note,

Five operas and many more Airs that stamp of genius bore, One hundred thirty-seven songs Depicting hopes, and joys and wrongs. Of these immortal songs 'tis said Six were sold for a loaf of bread.

Full ten great symphonies he made But no one to them honor paid While he was yet upon this earth, And never courted by True Mirth, But ever hungry, weak and ill Though working with his great soul's will Until the age of thirty-one When Death said "Rest, your work is done."

ROBERT SCHUMANN

[_Born in Zwickau, Germany--1810-1856._]

To most great music makers The fates have been unkind And in the life of Schumann Few joys we can find Except in the great love Of Clara, his dear wife, Who helped him in his struggles Throughout his married life.

He lost the power of playing Through dread paralysis. But Clara said, "Don't worry For nothing you need miss Since you can write sweet lovely airs And I'll play them for you And thus we two together The Music Muse can woo."

One hundred songs and thirty-eight He wrote in one short year, Inspired by his loving wife Who brought him hope and cheer. And when he died at forty-six And left her very poor With her eight children Clara went Upon a concert tour.

And with her wondrous playing Of airs her husband made She earned her bread and butter And glory ne'er to fade, For Schumann's magic music And songs that reach the heart, Showing they are tempered With great Apollo's art.

GIUSEPPE VERDI

[_Born in Duchy of Parma, Italy--1813-1901._]

The life of Verdi reads as well As any fairy tale; To interest a girl or boy I'm sure it could not fail. The stork brought him to Mother Earth In time of dreadful strife. Hid in an ancient church belfry His mother saved his life. And in this church which sheltered him From cruel blood-thirsty men He played as the church organist When he was only ten. The imps of evil troubled him But fairies came along To help him in his sorrows And fill his heart with song.

Like the proverbial mother cat Nine lives he seemed to have And for each injury received There always was some salve. Into the water once he fell And down he went times three Then some one rescued this young lad As if by Fate's decree.

The poor child yearned for music land And also longed for bread. And for a girdle round his waist He often wore, 'tis said, A bit of rope which he pulled taut When hunger did assail. And yet this lad all poorly clad And weak and wan and pale Forgot his hunger and his wants When Music's tones he heard In rippling of the waters bright, In songs of every bird.

Close to the fence of a rich man Whose daughter played each night Verdi when only six years old Would listen with delight. This hungry lad prayed often there That some day he might own A lovely spinet in whose keys Were fairies' magic tones.

One night while it was raining hard O'er the high fence he crawled Of an Italian wealthy man, Signor Barezzi called. He heard the daughter sweetly play A grand Beethoven air And while he lay enraptured there A coachman found his lair And beat the poor starved youngster whom He called a "dirty thief," And drove him from the music's reach Despite the poor child's grief.

But on the next night Verdi went Though filled with quaking fear And crawled again beneath the fence Sweet music there to hear. And here Barezzi found the lad As by the fence he lay And took the boy into his home To hear his daughter play.

He took an interest in this child And placed him in a school Where he could learn of music Each necessary rule. But disappointed he became When all the teachers said This boy who plays so queerly Will never rank ahead; As a musician of true worth He cannot hold his own And in Apollo's circle He never will be known.

And so discouraged, this poor lad Became a grocer boy Though every night he practised hard-- This was his only joy. And then quite foolishly alas The grocer's daughter wed And two small children came to him; For them there was no bread, And his young wife and children too From dreadful hunger died Just when his first great opera Most loudly was decried And he himself hissed off the stage. No wonder that he thought This life for him with sorrow's face Forever would be fraught, And it were better now to cross The Border-Land's dark path Through Suicide's short awful route Than live 'neath dark Fate's wrath.

But after two sad dreary years Of darkness and despair His operas succeeded And life seemed much more fair. He married a good second wife And wealthy he became; Legion of Honor given him Was added to his fame. In the Italian parliament Verdi received a seat And many other honors great Were cast down at his feet. While his _Il Trovatore_ great When first 'twas sung in Rome Became so very popular 'Twas heard in every home, And e'en to-day in every land This opera is played And glory for its author Will never, never fade.

The name Giuseppe Verdi Stands for composer great And one whose heart was ever filled With love instead of hate. But one bad fault this genius had Of flying into fits, And in great anger once he broke A spinet into bits. And when he taught his pupils He often boxed their ears, So of the music master Their hearts were filled with fears.

But he was always good and kind To all the poor and weak, And to help his fellow men He would ever seek. And when his works brought fame and wealth Barezzi's house he bought, Tore down the fence and made the grounds Into a music lot. And there this benefactor Invited one and all To come on every pleasant night And hear Apollo's call.

FRANZ LISZT

[_Born in Raiding, Hungary--1811-1886._]

Like Goddess Minerva so it is said Liszt sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head. Master of every silvery note Of the hum of the bee or the human throat.

Ere he was nine, on the ladder of fame He climbed, never stumbling and never once lame, Until he had reached the rung at the top When Death interfered with "Time now to stop."

Wealth flowed to this genius from his symphonies His teachings, his concerts, and grand rhapsodies. And as he went lauded on many a tour He scattered his money to those who were poor.

Neat in his dress and with manners polite Courting sweet friendship, avoiding a fight, This great man was loved by one and by all, The rich and the poor and the great and the small.

ANTON RUBINSTEIN

[_Born in Volhynia, Russia--1829-1894._]

When precious gifts gods give to men, A great price they require, As we have seen in all the lives Of those they did inspire With Music's wondrous magic charm That all true men adore Be they of wild and savage state Or wise men full of lore. And so with Anton Rubinstein Who many sorrows had Not only when to manhood grown But when he was a lad.

His parents were of Jewish birth Though Christians they became When cruelly persecuted Alas! in Christ's good name. His mother gave unto her boys In music their first start, And trained their minds to travel In realms of Music-Art. And later on she took her sons To Paris, there to learn To bring forth the great music Which in their souls did burn.

When but a very little chap Anton wrote wondrous songs Describing joys and sorrows And depicting wrongs, Which when he played in public Made all his hearers sigh, Laugh aloud or clap their hands And sometimes even cry.

Young Nicholas, his brother, Composed almost as well For both these music lovers Had touched Apollo's shell. But white plague took poor Nicholas Ere he could finish quite The songs the fairies whispered Oft in the stilly night.

While Anton worked for many a year And on the ladder FAME As a sensation player Securely placed his name.

To every realm of music Some work this master gave And o'er his _Ocean Symphony_ All of the nations rave.

But all his thoughts were not of love, And Liszt and Wagner airs Were classed by him as discords Not fit for country fairs.

He hated also our good land, Though when upon our shore He gathered in the golden streams And held his hand for more.

He traveled in most every land, Was steeped in music lore, And his great songs in number Will almost make eight score.

But he was never happy As in his heart was "Hate," Which shut out Fairy Happiness All mortals' proper mate.

CHRISTOPHER WILLIBALD GLÜCK

[_Born in Weidenwang, Germany--1714-1787._]

Though Glück himself lived a peaceful life His _Iphigénie_ caused much strife As on its merits Frenchmen fought Against Italians who had sought To down the so-called Glucist school And call each follower a fool.

The Picinists and Glucists then Agreed to a great contest when Each faction said that it would show The 'tother ought to Lethe go But after all harsh words were spent Both factions gladly gave consent That Glück's dramatic opera grand Ruled then o'er all great Music Land.

LOUIS HECTOR BERLIOZ

[_France--1803-1869._]

A prophet without honor In his own country known Was Louis Hector Berlioz Who yearned but for a bone Of French approval for his works Which strangers always praised But which in his own country No great applause would raise.

"A doctor you must be, my son," His father sternly said, But Louis tried to prove to him That music ranks ahead Of all this life's professions And he would like to try To win the famous Prix de Rome-- Oh, he would aim so high!