Part 3

_Con moto_ means with celerity or rapidity. Any gavotte music practices this.

These are only a few signs, but I have explained them just to show you how very necessary they can be both to practice and performance, and I think it well for all beginners in music to study certain bits just for the purpose of learning how to interpret such signs quickly at sight. An interesting half-hour's practice might be expended any day, I think, in this direction. I once knew a very ardent little student who always gave twenty minutes a day to what she called "rules." They were the study of sight reading, the learning of signs and reading music accordingly, the formation of chords, and the practice of making harmonic changes. I think it was a very useful part of her practicing. She often looks back to it now, thankful that she then accustomed herself to _thinking_ in her music.

Now, as I suppose you know, besides these dynamic signs, there are many terms used to indicate both the time and the character of the music to be played. You see them on every piece of music. Many of these are necessarily parts of long works like symphonies and sonatas; but of them, when so used, I hope I may tell you at some other time. I speak of them now in their general significance. Take the constantly used _allegro_. It always looks to me just what it means--brightness and gayety. Literally, it means _cheerful_. Now, as a matter of _time_, when you see _allegro_, you may know that you ought to play it between _andante_ time and _presto_ time.

Sometimes composers have simply called a piece an "allegro," just as Milton called his famous poem "L'Allegro." You will find it often modified by some other word, like _allegro assai_ or _con brio_, meaning a quick allegro; and if you go to a large concert, and have some knowledge of the music to be played, you may be surprised to find that the orchestra will take the _allegro_ rather more slowly than you would if you were playing at home. But this is a sort of unwritten rule which governs performers in a large hall. To me the word written beside my music as I turn the page seems to mean some fair and smiling country, peace and plenty, joyful content, the gay look of youth, and the sweetness of a gentle life. Try to play some _allegro_ movement, thinking of these happy things, and see if your fingers do not move more readily.

The term _andante_ used only to be employed in its most literal sense, which means _going_, and they then put other words with it, but now it is only used to mean _going slowly_. Beethoven has written many pieces just known as _andantes_. The word is constantly used to express a slow and solemn movement, but _adagio_ means something even more stately and pathetic. _Presto_ means a quick, sudden movement; it comes in often as a change from a richer, fuller sound. _Scherzo_, a term you will constantly see, literally means a _jest_, but it is employed to designate a humorous or lively movement.

These are, as you must know, only a few of the many terms employed in music, but I have given you their significations chiefly because they have to do with the arrangement of the sonata and the symphony.

Some day I shall hope to tell you a great deal about famous sonatas and symphonies, and concertos also, but here I can only give you some of the rules which have to be employed in their composition. All this, I am sure, ought to be very thoroughly understood by any one who plays a sonata or wishes to fully enjoy listening to one.

Originally the sonata consisted of slow, solemn movements when it was for church music, and of one or two only when it was for secular music, but the form in which we have it now is called the modern sonata, and _must_ consist of four movements.

First comes an _allegro_. This has two of what are called _themes_, or subjects, one in the _tonic_ or key-note, the other in what is called the _dominant_. This is the fifth note above the key-note. For example, should the first theme of an allegro be written in C, the second would have to be in G. It is called _dominant_, because the key of any passage can not be accurately known unless it has this note for root. Should the first theme of the sonata be written in the _minor_ key, then the second would have to be in the relative major.

The second movement of the sonata is the _andante_. This has usually one theme or subject, and it is in a key which _relates_ in some way to the tonic or leading key. I give you these rules simply, but they are worth remembering as first steps to much deeper study.

The third movement is a _minuet_ or _scherzo_ (this was introduced by Beethoven). The fourth movement is again an _allegro_, or _presto_, or _rondo_. Here we go back to the original key, but there is only one theme, and this is often gone over and over in various ways. Now, then, with these rules to govern them, musicians are allowed certain licenses, so that occasionally you will find a sonata written not quite in this form. Schubert, a wonderful composer, often disregarded rules in his sonatas, and occasionally Beethoven did the same. To Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven we owe the sonata as we have it now, and for beginners I should recommend Haydn and Mozart as the simplest reading and best music to begin upon.

A _symphony_, properly speaking, is an elaborate work like the _sonata_, divided into movements, but arranged chiefly with a view to orchestration. Any number of instruments may be used, and solos for different instruments are introduced. Sometimes voices are added, as in the famous Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. This is often called the Choral Symphony. The first writer of genuine symphonies was Boccherini, and Haydn brought them nearer to the form in which we have them. Mozart did a little more, and Beethoven perfected them.

Boccherini's music is often very dull, yet someway I like to think of him, and to hear his symphonies. He must have been a very interesting man to know. He was kindly, good-humored, and generous, and in the last century he played divinely on the 'cello. Often he was very poor; he led a wandering life, and wrote some delicious bits of music to pay for his dinner. In those days musical opportunities were rare, and yet good musicians often lived and died unappreciated. We of to-day owe poor, gentle Boccherini a great deal. I well remember a dull day in London, when at the house of a famous artist I heard some of his music rehearsed by the greatest musicians in the world. They were preparing for a concert, and asked a few friends to hear this impromptu practice. I thought how glad poor Boccherini (who died in 1805, fairly tired of his cruel life) would have been to hear such musicians render his work. Somehow it seemed to shut out all the fog and cheerlessness of the square below the window in which I sat.

THE LAST OF THE ICE.

"That's the end of the skating for this winter," said Jerry McDonald, mournfully.

"It'd have lasted three weeks longer," growled Put Giddings, "if it hadn't been for Captain Myers and his old steamer." And Pat Farrel added:

"What for did he come alongshore and smash the best ice there was left? It's foine big pieces he made of it, but they're no good for skatin'."

Either old Captain Myers was a man with no heart for fun of that kind, or he thought there had been enough of it that winter, for he had driven the hard nose of his steamer right through the smooth surface of the cove below toward the spot where he made his landings in the summer, and there was no such thing as saying too much for the style in which he had smashed the ice. There was just a narrow strip left right close to the beach, and there was no good skating to be had on that.

"There's lots of it," said Jerry, "but it won't freeze to bear again. It'd be rougher'n ploughed ground if it did."

"Some of the chunks are big ones," remarked Put. "That's the way the icebergs get away from the north pole. They break away in the spring, and they float down south and melt."

"'Dade," exclaimed Pat Farrel, "an' don't I wish owld Myers was on wan of thim icebergs!" But Put went right along in spite of the interruption:

"And if a white bear gets caught on an iceberg, he gets floated away with and drowned, unless the menagerie men send out an expedition and save him."

"Those icebergs out there wouldn't float a dog," said Bill Thatcher. But Pat Farrel came to Put's help:

"Wouldn't they, now? That big wan, close inshore, would carry any wan of us."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Yes, it would."

They were right in the middle of the argument about that cake of ice, when Put Giddings, who had gone to the edge of the solid strip to study the matter, gave a little run and a sliding jump. He hardly knew why he did it, but it landed him right in the middle of that cake of ice, and the shove he gave it sent it several feet away from its moorings.

"Here I am, boys! What do you think of this for an iceberg?"

"Wid a young bear on it," said Pat.

"Keep your balance," shouted Bill Thatcher. "How'll you ever get ashore?" And Mum Robbins remarked:

"It's just like Put. He's always doing something."

"Don't she rock, though!" said Put, bravely. "Wish I had something to steer with."

"What for?" asked Pat. "Did you ever see an iceberg wid a rudder?"

"Put," said Mum Robbins, "you're a-floating. There'll have to be an expedition sent after you."

"And save him, and put him in a menaygerie," said Pat. "It's a foine bear he'd make."

"If he doesn't stand still in the middle of it, he'll tip it over," began Bill Thatcher. But Put had been studying his own chances, and he shouted:

"Boys, just one of you go and get a fence rail. I'll come ashore and let some of you try it. It's the biggest cake around here."

"Are you getting scared?"

"Does it teter much?"

There were a good many remarks made, but quite a squad of boys set off after a fence rail, while Bill Thatcher called out:

"Stand still right there in the middle. It wouldn't take much to tip her over."

"Rock her," said Pat Farrel. "Mebbe you kud rock her right back to the shore."

"When an iceberg gets loose," said Bill Thatcher, "it just floats away. It doesn't go back to the pole and freeze on again."

"Boys," exclaimed Put, "they'll have to bring a good long rail. The water's getting wider and wider."

So it was, and somehow it had a look of being colder and colder, and it looked both wider and colder to the boy on the iceberg than it did to any of the other young bears alongshore.

The cake was a wide one, and it was floating pretty well, but Put Griddings should not have taken Pat Farrel's advice about rocking it.

There was a sudden dull cracking sound right under the unsteady feet of Put Giddings. In a second or so more there were four or five small cakes of ice on that spot of water instead of one big piece, and right in among them was the cap of an unlucky boy, and from under the cap there came a loud and astonished yell.

"The iceberg's busted!"

"Put's broke in!"

"Hurry up that rail!"

There were shouts enough, and there would have been a panic if it had not been for Jerry McDonald.

"Swim, Put," he shouted. "Catch the end of my tippet. It's the longest kind of a tippet. Catch."

Put himself was quite cool about the matter, now he had yelled. In fact, almost anybody can keep cool in such ice-water as that was. The distance was not great, but the tippet was thrown out three times before the swimmer caught the end of it.

"Now, Bill," said Jerry, "we've got him. Grab me round the waist, and look out you don't slip. He's a-coming!"

So he was, for all the world as if he was a big fish and they had hooked him; but just as he came near the solid ice, and Bill and Jerry began to strain harder than ever, the rescued "bear" suddenly arose in the water until he stood half out of it.

"Pull!" shouted Jerry, with his nose in the air, and an anxious look on his face. "We've 'most got him."

"They've got him, boys!" yelled a youngster who was hurrying up with a fence rail twice as long as himself, but Put Giddings was as cool as ever.

It was easy enough to get out and start for home; but it was very mean of Pat Farrel to remark, "Put, me b'y, ye'd betther dance all the way."

"B-b-boys," replied Put, "if you w-w-want to know how a b-b-bear feels on an iceberg, just try one of those other c-c-cakes."

He started on what was as near a run as it was to a dance, but it was plain he had received no worse harm than a wetting, and that crowd of boys was by no means satisfied.

"Look how the ice is packed in the cove," said Bill Thatcher, "and the pieces are big ones too."

"They wouldn't hold a fellow up."

"Yes, they would."

"See how Put's chunk carried him until he danced through it."

"Boys," said Jerry, "don't you know? There's seven times as much of a chunk of ice under the water as there is above it? Maybe it's eight times."

"Well," replied Mum Robbins, "if you should try to cross the cove on that pack of cakes, there'd be seven times as much of you in the water as there would be anywhere else."

"Now I guess not. If a fellow ran fast enough, and if he didn't stop two seconds on any one cake, he could get across."

"S'posing he should slip up?"

"He'd have to look out for that, and he'd have to jump pretty lively; but he could do it."

The excitement over Put Giddings and his iceberg had left that lot of lake-shore boys in a bad state of mind, and they were drifting toward the cove all the while they were talking. The ice there was indeed packed pretty well. Not as closely as in an ice-house, perhaps, but still it had a very substantial appearance, considering what it really was. It seemed a great pity, too, not to get a little more fun out of what had been the best skating ground on all that end of the lake. Still, the remaining mischief was really done by Pat Farrel, small as he was, for he broke in on the talk of the larger boys with:

"Crass that ice, is it? I kud do it in a minute if me fut was well. Yer afraid to thry it. That's all."

There was always some place or other lame or bruised about Pat Farrel, for the good reason that he could not see or think of any rash undertaking he was not at once ready to try.

Pat kept on talking, and the more he said about it, the more the taller boys began to feel that it was their duty to try it.

Mum Robbins was a little the best runner, but it was well known that Bill Thatcher could outjump him, and the other boys were quite contented to let those two make the experiment.

They went back three or four rods from the edge of the "pack" to get a good start, and then Pat Farrel shouted, "Now, b'ys, jump!"

They started, and they were almost surprised, as were all the lookers-on, to find how easy a piece of work it was at first. Their footfalls hardly stirred the cakes of ice from their places, and the small boys began to hurrah. All that, however, was near shore, where the cakes were wedged and jammed together in a sort of close raft that helped support itself, but there was something not quite so nice a little further out toward the middle of the cove. Everything grew looser and looser the further the two young adventurers went, and in a few seconds more they were actually forced to jump a wide crack. Then all the "race track" under them became full of cracks, and every cake they trod upon danced and wobbled, and they were not half so sure of their footing.

Mum Robbins was winning the race, for he was three-quarters of the way over, when he heard a loud cry behind him, and a great chorus of louder cries on the shore. He did not dare to pause an instant, for he was getting out of breath, and it would not do to use any cake for more than one footstep. It was an awful half-minute, but the moment he reached solid ice he turned and looked. "Where's Bill Thatcher?"

Not running or jumping, and yet there he was, every inch of him. Bill had alighted on the edge of a cake which was still tetering from the effects of being trodden upon by Mum Robbins, and it had at once slipped from under him. His foot went through into the water, and before he knew it he was lying flat on his back. The next thing he was really sure of was that he was also lying on three separate cakes of ice, and that they wobbled dreadfully with every movement he made.

Bill yelled in spite of himself when the water rose above the cracks, and crept through to his skin. Here was a second panic among the many-sized mob alongshore. One shouted one thing and one another, and two small boys began to cry, but Pat Farrel was equal to the occasion.

"What for did he do that? Now, b'ys, we've got to go for some boords. There's a hape of 'em in front of owld Van Meter's fence. 'Tisn't far to bring 'em. We'll have him out o' that."

The work of transporting the best half of Deacon Van Meter's fencing boards was done in a sort of frenzy, and Aunt Hannah Van Meter came rushing out of the house to see about it.

"Drowning? Mum Robbins, did you say Bill Thatcher was drowning? I'll run down to the village and tell his mother."

"Ye'd betther take howld and kerry a big boord wid us," replied Pat Farrel, sturdily, and Aunt Hannah exclaimed:

"Me? Carry a board? That's what I'll do, then."

"Don't let his mother know he's dhrowned till afther we've saved him," said Pat. "Then she won't care."

All that time, short as it was, poor Bill lay there on his unsteady raft, and felt more and more sorry he had been such a fool, while every ten seconds somebody on the shore shouted to him: "Lie still, Bill. They're a-coming."

The boards did come, and three of them, side by side, on the ice, made a bridge over which it would have been almost entirely safe to walk.

"Roll over, Bill," called the crowd on shore, and Bill did roll. Any part of it that was not rolled over was passed in a very cautious kind of creeping.

The shore was reached at last, but the first thing Bill heard, when he stood upon his feet, was from Pat Farrel.

"You've baten Mum Robbins entirely. He just run right acrass. You're the ownly wan that dared to shtop and lie down."

"He'll catch his death of cold," said Aunt Hannah. "Hurry home, William. Your mother'll give you something warm."

Bill took Aunt Hannah's advice. There were two boys who were glad to spend that afternoon by the fire getting the chill out of their bones. But who says there wasn't any fun the day Captain Myers's steamboat broke up the ice on Long Lake?

THE CANDY PULL.

Such lots of fun The other day, When Tom, and Jack, And Maud, and May,

And children, till The house was full, Came trooping to Our candy pull.

The tiny tots, Who looked so sweet, Did nothing much Except to eat.

But we worked hard The other day, We older ones, And thought it play.

For a frolic what can be pleasanter than a candy pull? Have you had one yet this winter? No? Well, children, do fly to mamma, and tell her that your Aunt Marjorie Precept has just given you the nicest bit of advice you've ever heard from her, and that is that you shall have the fun and uproar of a good old-fashioned time making molasses candy.

If any of you have such a splendid kitchen as the one in the picture, and can swing your kettle of New Orleans molasses over a beautiful open fire, you will enjoy it. But you may make very nice candy indeed upon the stove or range. Aunt Marjorie made some the other day, and how she would have liked to send you all a bit! She took two cups of molasses and one of brown sugar, a tea-spoonful of butter, and a table-spoonful of vinegar. After this mixture had boiled twenty minutes, she took it off, and poured it on a wide platter to cool. As soon as it was cool enough to be handled, she began to pull it, first buttering her hands that the candy might not stick to them. The more she pulled it, the whiter it grew.

How can you tell when the candy is done, do you ask? Why, just get a saucerful of cold water and drop some into it. If the candy sets itself into shape when dropped, it is done. The old nurse who is helping these boys and girls has made so much candy in her time that she is quite a veteran. She feels like smiling at Rose and Patty, who are afraid of their hands, and she praises Master Arthur, who is pulling his piece with such energy. People who play with their might usually work with their might too.

Sly little Hughie, who is trying with his toy cane to pull off poor nurse's cap, does not deserve a taste of candy. As for the little boy who is drinking out of the pitcher, and the kitties that wait so patiently to find out whether they are to have any milk after all the fuss, we hardly know what to think. Some cats love candy, and some boys think a drink is much more delicious if taken in a troublesome way.

If you should have a candy pull, be sure that you let everybody have a share of the work, and when the frolic is over, think whether there is not some little sick boy or girl, or some poor family, who have not many pleasures, and send away a boxful of candy to these friends the next day. I wouldn't be surprised if you should write to me in this fashion: "Dear Aunt Marjorie,--The best part of our candy pull was the postscript." See if you don't.

OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.

A little Breeze crept slyly out the other day from under the wing of his mother, the great North Wind. To his surprise he found a crowd of Breezes and Zephyrs who had wakened an hour or two earlier than he. They were rushing here and there, and frolicking with everything they saw. A very pompous old gentleman with a gold-headed cane was walking down the street, and a naughty Breeze whisked off his hat and wig. "Take care of yourself!" said the Wind to the Breeze; "such behavior is very wrong." A boy was carrying a kitten in a basket. He was taking it away to give it to his aunt Mary. Presto! a Breeze whirled away his cap, and another one peered into the basket, and out flew Miss Kittykins, and ran home as fast as four velvet paws could carry her. The Breezes blew against the shutters and broke the windows, and dashed around the corners, and had the merriest time; and they are having it still. The Postmistress says she is glad of it, for March is a jolly month, and all the while that he is tearing about with his troop of whistling Winds and his crew of rioting Gales he is preparing the way for the gentle maiden Spring to come in earnest.

And kite-time's here too, isn't it, boys?

* * * * *

CHELSEA, MASSACHUSETTS.

We live on the bank of the Mystic River, and have a view of Bunker Hill Monument, which is just opposite to us, on the Charlestown side of the river. There is also on Bunker Hill a beautiful bronze statue of Colonel Prescott. Our home is very pretty, and in the summer we row in our boat on the river. The tide rises and falls twice a day five or six feet. When it is low, and the rocks and beach are bare, we find a great many star-fish. They have five points, just like a star. The eye is in the middle. We dry them on a board, and keep them as curiosities.