Part 2

Constanza glanced at Roser, a musician who was with them, and, blinded by his tears, Roser sat down to the piano, and sang one of Mozart's favorite airs. It was almost the last sound his closing ears received. The next morning, Sunday, December 5, 1791, at the age of thirty-five, Mozart died.[4]

[4] Nannerl survived her brother many years. Constanza Mozart died in this century, having in 1809 married a second time.

He left behind him so many works that I hardly know which to speak of first. His operas, _Don Giovanni_, _Figaro_, and _The Magic Flute_ are known and prized all the world over; but besides there are the masses, the sonatas, the symphonies, and the quartettes. In the sonatas especially the young pianist may find the greatest advantage. As _reading_ they are admirable, and for practice with four hands I know of nothing better, unless it be some of Haydn's quartettes.

HAVING FUN WITH A WOODCHUCK.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

Jack and I made up our minds to catch a woodchuck. We were spending the summer down on the east end of Long Island, and judging from the number of cauliflowers eaten by them, the woodchucks were abundant; so we determined to catch one.

Farmer Brown, to whom we applied for advice, told us to "grab him by the tail as he went into his hole." This sounded so easy that we decided to try it at once. We found, however, after two or three days of patient waiting, that the woodchuck absolutely refused to go into his hole while we were within grabbing distance.

We then set steel-traps in the burrows, but with no effect. We wandered around the fields armed with an old musket, and succeeded only in wasting a large quantity of powder and lead. We tried to drown one out, and after blistering our hands by carrying pails of water, were told that "a woodchuck hasn't lived in that burrer for two years." We were disappointed, but not discouraged.

"Let's set the rabbit trap," said Jack one morning as we were planning for the day's campaign.

So we carried the rabbit trap, which was a great box with a swinging door, up to the hedge back of the barn, and set it. Farmer Brown laughed at us, and said,

"Ef you see a 'chuck, put for the nearest hole; ef you git thar before him you can stop him from goin' in."

This plan seemed so much more exciting than any other, that we spent that afternoon and the next day looking for a stray woodchuck. Toward evening our patience was rewarded by the sight of a woodchuck in the middle of a field. Jack and I had by that time learned the location of the holes as well as the owners themselves, and we both started for a burrow in the hedge.

The woodchuck saw us, and made for the same burrow. He hadn't so far to go, and was evidently in a great hurry. Jack managed to arrive just in time to throw his hat in the mouth of the hole, thinking to bar the progress of the woodchuck. Vain hope! On came the woodchuck, and dived into the burrow, carrying Jack's hat with him. I just reached the spot in time to see the brown stump of a tail vanish, and hear Jack exclaim,

"I wonder what he is going to do with my hat?"

The loss of Jack's hat cast a damper upon our hunting for the afternoon, and it was not until after supper that we thought of the rabbit trap. When we reached it, it was sprung, and there was a sound of scratching inside that showed plainly something was trying to escape. We carried the trap carefully down to the barn, and opened it, so as to let our prize into a large barrel.

Our happiness was complete: it was a large woodchuck. What had tempted him to go into the trap I am sure I can't tell. Probably he was a victim of his own curiosity. At any rate, we had him safe and sound in the barrel, and after we had covered it with a board we went to our beds very much elated over our success.

The next morning we rose early, and went to the barn to see our prize. There he was in the barrel, his little eyes gleaming with rage, and signifying his disapproval of our proceedings by a series of short, sharp barks. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck me.

"Let's shut the doors; then let him out on the floor, and have some fun with him," I said.

Jack agreed, and we soon had every door and window but one securely fastened. This window was, fortunately for me, overlooked in our haste to have our fun.

We turned the barrel over, and out sprang a very angry woodchuck. He started directly for Jack, and that youth, with an agility which I had never given him credit for, scrambled into the oats bin. The animal then turned his undivided attention to me, and I dashed around the barn, the woodchuck in pursuit.

Every nail in the barn seemed to stand out and take a hold upon some portion of my clothing, and it was rapidly being reduced to fragments. Jack jumped out of the bin to assist me, but only succeeded in making the confusion worse. With a jump, the woodchuck fastened his teeth on Jack's arm. Luckily he only bit through the sleeve of his loose blue flannel shirt. Thoroughly frightened, Jack grasped a rope which hung from one of the rafters, and swung himself out of reach.

At that moment I spied the open window, and in a second more I was out. Jack was hanging on the rope with a tenacious grip, and the woodchuck was trotting around trying to find an avenue of escape. I ran to the door and threw it open. A dark form whizzed past me, and Jack dropped from the rope. We had had enough woodchuck for one summer.

"What on airth hev you boys been a-doin'?" inquired Farmer Brown as we entered the house.

"Been having some fun with a woodchuck," replied Jack, a little sheepishly.

Farmer Brown laughed, and remarked, as he took a second look at our torn clothes and flushed faces,

"Wa'al, I don' know, but it kinder looks as ef the woodchuck had been a-hevin' fun with you."

And when I think the matter over, I am rather inclined to be of the same opinion.

THE WANDERING SUNBEAM.

BY E. M. TRAQUAIR.

A little wandering sunbeam Came sliding down the sky; To seek another home below, It left its home on high.

On baby Mary's head it lit-- Our gentle little one; Her eyes grew blue as heaven's hue, Her ringlets like the sun.

Its home it made with her; and since, Though quiet as a mouse, Her smile is like the day: she is Our sunbeam in the house.

FOURTH OF JULY AT BEAVER BROOK.

BY ADA CARLETON STODDARD.

"Not a fire-cracker," Mr. Marden had said, looking around on his half-dozen boys--"not a single fire-cracker, nor pin-wheel, nor rocket this year, boys. You come pritty nigh burnin' up the hull town last Fourth, an' I don't want to run no more sech risks. Enj'y yourselves as well's you can other ways 'n that. Now mind!"

That was how and why--because of this interdiction of everything that goes to make a Fourth of July different from a fourth of August or any other day--the boys happened to think of going up the river fishing.

They were down on the river-bank, lying at full length on the green grass, when Jed Harden said, meditatively, tossing a pebble into the water, "There'll be no fun staying here, boys, 'thout we can fire off things."

Bud Rose laughed. He could never be serious. "It's because we fired off Jennings's barn last Fourth that everybody's so down on our celebrating this year," said he. "I wonder how the old thing got afire, anyhow?"

"Easy enough," rejoined Jed; "there was a heap of straw all round it, and I don't s'pose we were over 'n' above careful. The old shanty wasn't worth ten cents, but it came near burning up everybody else's buildings."

"So it did. After all, I don't blame folks much. There ain't such a sight of fun in snapping crackers, anyhow."

"But what shall we do?"

Charley Stevens looked up then. All this time he had not spoken, but lay gazing out on the river. "I move we go fishing up on Beaver Brook," said he. "Start before daylight, and stay till after dark."

"Second the motion. Hooray!"

All was animation now. The boys sat bolt-upright. Charley laughed. "Moved and seconded that we, the stirring youth of Brayton, celebrate to-morrow by going fishing. All who favor this will please say--"

"Ay!"

"The motion is unanimously carried," said Charley, shaking back his hair.

I think it was myself. So would you if you could have heard that roaring assent. There was no half-way work with the Brayton boys. They were all on hand the next morning, with their lunch baskets, not exactly before daylight, but sufficiently early; and they could not resist the temptation to give several prolonged whoops as they shoved the old scow out from shore.

"That'll let 'em know we're 'round," laughed Charley Stevens. "There, boys, back up. I've left my pails."

"What pails?"

"Why," said Charley, "I promised to save some of the smallest fish, if they weren't hooked too much, for Laurie's aquarium, and I brought along a couple of pails to keep 'em alive in. There they are on the bank. Backwater."

"Nonsense!"

But Charley was firm; and Jed and Bud and Vet, who were taking the first turn at the paddles, pulled a rod or two back to the shore, not without a little grumbling, and brought away the pails. Afterward they all had very good reason to remember and be thankful for this. Then they pulled steadily away up the river, through the light fog which the rays of the morning sun had not yet scattered, trolling their lines, and catching a few fish by the way.

"I would have brought a frying-pan," said Dean Marden, pulling in a speckled trout, "but father said 'twouldn't do to make a fire this weather. Everything's dry as tinder."

"And Beaver Brook isn't more'n two miles from the village, through the woods," said Charley, meditatively. "Wind blows right that way, too."

"It's four miles by the river, if it's an inch," said Vet Adams; for the river certainly made a wide detour.

"It's crooked as a ram's horn," declared Jeff Gammon, wiping the perspiration from his face. "A fellow has to pull all the way round Robin Hood's barn to get anywhere."

Charley laughed. "We're almost to the mouth of the brook now," said he. "There's the old pine."

And in a few minutes the scow, propelled by three pairs of stout arms, swept grandly around the point of land and into Beaver Brook, on one side, just as a light birch-bark canoe, holding two men, shot out on the other side.

"Indians!" exclaimed Charley, in a tone of great disgust. "There's a camp of 'em down the river somewhere. We won't get any fish here, boys."

Charley was right. They fished for half an hour, waiting patiently for a nibble, which they did not get.

"We'll have to go further up the brook," said Charley; and accordingly the old scow was once more set in motion.

How pleasant it was! They ran along in the shade of the willows that skirted the brook, their paddles dipping lazily, and their fishing-lines trailing in the deep still water. It was very warm in the sun, but there was a smart breeze blowing, and a prospect of showers later on.

Suddenly Charley felt a jerk on his line that, taking him unawares, nearly pulled him off his seat.

"Gracious! boys, hold on," he said, in an excited whisper. "I've got a ten-pounder."

It was not half of that, nor had Charley got his fish; but the paddles were quickly and quietly shipped. Charley pulled in a nice trout, and Bud Rose another.

"Ain't they beauties!"

"We're right in a school of 'em," said Bud, rebaiting his hook. "I say, fellows, ain't this a long chalk better'n fire-works?"

For no matter how many times a country boy may have been a-fishing, nor how many fish he may have caught, the sport must always be exciting.

An exclamation of alarm from one of their number, as Bud finished speaking, startled the boys; and they were a good deal more startled, and not a little provoked, to see Charley catch up one of the heavy paddles and plunge it into the water with a long sweeping stroke, the impetus of which sent the scow forward a dozen feet.

"Now look here!"

"Boys," cried Charley, flushed and anxious in a minute, "we may have the fire-works yet. See there!"

Around a bend in the stream a thin blue line of smoke was seen curling up through the trees, and even as the boys gazed, it appeared to increase in volume and density.

"The Indians must have left it!" exclaimed Charley, hurriedly. "Boys--"

There was no need nor time for words. Instantly the two remaining paddles were seized, and the scow was headed up and around the bend. It came to them all in a flash how strong the wind was blowing from the west; that the woods of Dunn Township, altogether proprietors' land, adjoined Brayton, extending to the top of the hill that overlooked the village; and each boy's heart turned pale at the prospect.

"It's all black growth, too," groaned Charley, "and full of old dry tops, where they've been lumbering year after year--just a regular tinder-box. This wind'll carry fire from it a mile anyway. Pull, boys, pull!"

And they pulled. But the fire was getting under good headway when they reached the spot. The smoke was rolling up blacker and thicker, and through it the boys could see the red flickering tongues of flame.

"Take the pails--your hats--anything that'll hold water," cried Charley, "and wet your jackets--wet yourselves all over."

He was obeyed. Pailful after pailful of water was dashed upon the fire, which had been built beside an old dry pine stub; and they were really subduing it, when a sudden tempestuous flurry of wind scattered the burning embers in all directions; and presently, before the boys were able fairly to realize that the mischief had been done, a dozen tiny puffs of smoke started up around. In reality everything was dry as tinder.

"We've got to fight it--fight it hard, boys," said Charley, between his gritted teeth. "I'd like to wring the necks of those Indians."

Well, and how they battled the fire that scorching July day! They stamped it out; they smothered it with earth; they dashed water over it; they stifled it with their wet jackets, blistering faces, hands, and feet without for a moment minding the pain. More than once they were sure they had conquered, and made the woods ring with a shout of triumph, only to see, almost before the echoes died away, another puff of smoke starting up, and another. Their throats were parched, and rattled when they tried to speak, and their eyes were smarting and inflamed with the smoke.

"It's no use, boys; we _can't_ do it," one or another would say; and then they would fall to work with greater vigor than before, if that were possible.

It was no boys' play, I can tell you. For two long hours they fought the flames, with blistering hands and faces begrimed with smoke and cinders. And when they saw the fire was gaining inch by inch, they worked still.

"We'll do all we can," panted Charley. "Oh, boys, why _won't_ it rain! The thunder-clouds all go round. Oh, boys!"

As he spoke, a long fiery tongue lapped at the foot of a dry tree, and the flames went up, up, to the top, with a hissing, rushing roar which turned the boys' hearts sick with dread.

"It's gone," said Charley. "We can't do any more."

But at the same moment came a growl of distant thunder. A dense, black cloud was growing in the west. Through it there darted a vivid gleam of light.

"Thunder and lightning!" yelled Bud. "Up, boys, and at it again! We'll have plenty of help before long."

So it proved. The cloud swept over the sky with surprising rapidity, and in a very short time the rain fell in sheets. And out in the storm, the thunder crashing, and the lightning playing about them, stood ten smoke-blackened, drenched boys, with little rivers of rain wearing channels down their sooty faces, hurrahing with might and main. If a few tears of thankfulness and relief mingled with the rivers of rain, I do not think any boy need have been at all ashamed of them.

"Well," said Charley, "we've had our Fourth-of-July fire-works with a vengeance." This was when the rain had nearly ceased falling, and the boys had embarked for home.

"We've had the fire anyhow," laughed Bud, plying his paddle leisurely.

"And I'm sure we've had the work."

"You don't suppose 'twill start up again?", asked Jed Marden, looking behind a little anxiously, as the old scow moved slowly down the stream.

"No," answered Charley, and he drew a deep breath of relief; "it can't after such a soaking. But 'twas a close shave, I tell you, boys."

So the towns-people thought when they heard the story.

"'Twas a fust-rate day's work for us," said Mr. Marden at the corner grocery next morning. "Nothin' on earth would ha' saved the place ef the fire'd come through there. It's somethin' to brag about. I'm proud o' the boys--I am so."

"They've paid up for burning Jennings's old barn," said Mr. Stevens, carefully weighing out four ounces of tea.

"So they hev," assented Mr. Marden.

And so the good folks of Brayton have each and every one of them resolved that next year the boys shall have such a Fourth-of-July celebration as Brayton has never yet seen.

THE BABIES' PROCESSION.

BY W. A. ROGERS.

The gay parade of little folk shown in our picture takes place every Fourth of July at Dayton, Ohio--a pretty town on the banks of the Miami River.

It originated, we believe, in the brain of a patriotic little nurse-maid, who, with two or three companions; on a Fourth of July some years ago, trimmed their carriages with flags and streamers, and gayly tripped around the block in Indian file. The babies were delighted, and the nurse-maids flattered at the attention they received on every hand, and not one little boy on the entire route so far forgot himself as to fire a cracker under the babies' carriages or throw a torpedo at their protectors.

Every year, with one exception, the little procession has wended its way along the sidewalk, with constantly increasing numbers, the pioneer babies taking the lead.

But on a hot summer day one year, when the little carriages were almost ready, and busy hands were putting on their holiday attire, one of the three children fell ill and passed away. Its empty carriage told so mournful a story that the other nurses sadly put by the flags and trimmings, and the flowers and wreaths drooped and withered.

The next year, when the flowers were blooming over the silent little pioneer, all the baby carriages in town were put in commission at least a week before the Fourth. Every scrap of nickel plate was burnished to the highest degree of polish, and lingering roses on the later bushes were carefully guarded to preserve them to grace the occasion.

In the cool of the evening, when the small boys were about tired of exploding mines, disfiguring their faces, and making that awful din incident to the day, and were beginning to count up their sky-rockets, pin-wheels, and red lights, the gay procession moved down the broad flagged walk.

At the head was the pretty nurse who had originated the affair, pushing before her a wicker carriage trimmed with roses, and gay with flags and emblems and gilded stars, from the wheels to the lace-trimmed canopy. Nestling in its gorgeous carriage was a somewhat bewildered but very happy baby. A tiny boy, as guard of honor, accompanied each little carriage, carrying in his hand a wand to charm away stray fire-crackers from their path.

Porticoes and balconies were crowded with the babies' friends as the procession passed by and faded into a pretty recollection of silvery laughter, waving flags, crowing babies, and happy nurse-maids and children.

HOW JOHNNIE WENT TO SCHOOL.

BY MARY A. PORTERFIELD.

Little John worked in a barrel factory in the thriving town of E----, in Pennsylvania.

Piling staves or rolling barrels all day long is not very enjoyable work, but Johnnie did not grumble: no, indeed, he was too happy to get even the hardest and dullest work to do. He wanted to go to school, and his aunt had said if he could save money enough to buy books and clothes, he might go. He was delighted with this permission, and clattered down-stairs, three steps at a time, to hunt up Pat, his friend and confidant, who would double his happiness by sharing it.

Pat was a newsboy on the railroad, a cheery, good-natured Irish lad, whose mother had died years ago, when he was but a blue-eyed baby. The new mother that came into the little whitewashed cabin by the railroad was too busy with her pigs, her garden, and her own little ones to pay much attention to Pat at first; though by-and-by she thought there was no room for him in the little home. Poor Pat! he had a hard time finding any place where there was room for him. At last Johnnie persuaded his aunt to let the forsaken Irish boy share his bed. They had been firm friends, sharing their boyish griefs and joys with the complete sympathy of childhood; they were brothers in heart, if not in name.

Johnnie and Pat were industrious, contented, and happy. During the day they worked on the cars and in the factory, but in the evening the kind aunt taught them the common-school studies. Both boys eagerly longed for the time when they could enjoy fuller advantages for education.

Pat saw his way but dimly, but Johnnie's happiness seemed near at hand. It was a touching sight to see the two boys once or twice a week bring out their store of savings. No miser ever thrilled at the sight and touch of heaps of gold as those two boys at their paltry handful of silver and copper.

It was about a month before school began, and yet Johnnie had not saved quite the desired amount.

One evening he came rushing home waving his hat and dinner pail to his aunt, who stood in the doorway.

"Oh, auntie, I have enough now," he shouted joyfully.

Her motion for silence and the look on her face lowered his glad voice.

"What is the matter? Are you ill? Has anything happened to Pat?" he hurriedly asked.

"Come in and sit down, and I will tell you," she replied.

A strange sickening odor of some drug filled the house; there was an unusual stir in the front room. Johnnie's heart sank within him. He listened with terror-stricken face to the terrible news. An accident on the road; Pat was hurt; they were amputating his arm; they feared he would die.

His face grew whiter and whiter as each detail of the horror grew upon his mind. He buried his face in his hands, and sat motionless a long, long time.

After a time he went softly into the house, into the room where Pat lay still unconscious.

"Pat, dear Pat," he sobbed, laying his wet face against the one colorless hand.

Here he remained until he heard the doctor's step in the hall, when he withdrew to the shadow of the curtain, dreading yet longing to hear his words. How his heart leaped with joy to know that Pat might live, though a cripple. His dear, dashing, frolicksome Pat a cripple!

All night long Johnnie sat with his eyes on the pallid young face. He was trying to think out some plan for helping him. A firm, happy look dawned on his grave, thoughtful face. He seemed to have solved a part of his hard problem.

Toward morning Pat opened his eyes and looked around in a dazed sort of way. He tried to rise, but was too weak. Slowly he recalled the accident, the pain, and the darkness. What came then? Looking around in a helpless, wistful manner, he saw Johnnie's big eyes shining on him through falling tears. He moved his left hand around to find the right one. Alas! it was gone. Turning his face to the wall, the hot tears slipped quickly down from his closed eyes.

It was a long day for the boys, Johnnie at his toilsome labor in the factory, and Pat at home thinking, thinking, thinking, trying to find some gleam of brightness, some way of self-help in the future.