With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night. Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came! What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, When the wondrous boa was opened that had come from over seas, With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys! Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy, For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, “Now, Mary, play.”       For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm; She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills, Or caroling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills. So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please, Sat down to the new “Clementi,” and struck the glittering keys. Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim, As, floating from lip and finger, arose the “Vesper Hymn.”       —Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red,      (Wedded since, and a widow,—something like ten years dead,)      Hearing a gush of music such as none before, Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door. Just as the “Jubilate” in threaded whisper dies,      —“Open it! open it, lady!” the little maiden cries,      (For she thought 't was a singing creature caged in a box she heard,)      “Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!”  

  

       IV     

       I don't know whether our literary or professional people are more amiable than they are in other places, but certainly quarrelling is out of fashion among them. This could never be, if they were in the habit of secret anonymous puffing of each other. That is the kind of underground machinery which manufactures false reputations and genuine hatreds. On the other hand, I should like to know if we are not at liberty to have a good time together, and say the pleasantest things we can think of to each other, when any of us reaches his thirtieth or fortieth or fiftieth or eightieth birthday.     

       We don't have “scenes,” I warrant you, on these occasions. No “surprise”        parties! You understand these, of course. In the rural districts, where scenic tragedy and melodrama 

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