The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-01-14
U'riaen for The 4 rkdnSaw Trdpeie1'.
 OLD MUSIC.
BY CHARLES s. BLACKBuRx.


 BY CHARLES 8. BLACKBURN.
 
 With him untaught il. the science of song, association is the soul of mel ody. To such an one, the magnificent ''opus" is but an internal discord the wielder of the baton is a dervish, silent but active, to whose insane movements the musicians give horri- ble utterances. But change the play CTS: put i'll their stead single violin, wielded by d master if you wish, or by an amateur only, it matters not, and have him give it voice in some air, old and may be long forgotten by the listener: then, as the simple chords revive social memories, the first ex- clamation will be, God bless that old tune! It is the sweetest music in the world" And so it is, to him.
 The cool breath of a breeze, on summers night when the moon is free; the fluttering of yellow leaf in the autumn sunshine at five o'clock in the afternoon; will retouch with magic brush scene long efiaced from the canvas of the mind: so the old tunes we used to hear tell each sepa- rate history in our lives. They are speaking now-listen!
 In a shady valley, stood a little white house, around whose waist noisy stream half encircled it's arm The front gate looked toward the drowsy town; the back gate looked up a sloping hill, white with pebbles that shone with silvery brightness in the sunlight. Up this hill led a path, which, reaching the top, turned to the left through hazel brake and stopped at spring. Around this spring grew white violets; overhead, the bay tree showed it's blossoms, which held up their silent heads in complacent won- derment that there should be any need for the sun to shine. Up this path you walked, but not alone. A barefoot girl, six years old, with hair of gold and eyes of blue, and laugh that rings in your heart now, roams with you. Your pantaloons were rolled up above the knees, tufts of hair thrust themselves through many holes in your straw hat She plucked the violets, while you climbed the bay tree anu dropped the big white flow CTS into her lap. She stopped to drink, placing her knee upon flat stone and as she bent over and put her lips to the limpid sheen, her hair fell down and floated upon the surface of the water. Around the hazel twigs the love-vine grew. You scrambled within the copse and secured one-a long, yellow tendril-and placed it in her little hand. She turned twice round upon her nut brown heel and threw the missile over her left shoul- der. When you walked away what tune was she humming? "Nellie Bly,"
 There was one Fourth of July in your boyhood calendar when it did not rain. You owned a whole half dollar-and the grocer owned beer and cakes. Somehow, he was man whom you feared: yet you could not define the reason, for although he was very ugly, he was as kind as he was ugly, and while he never gave you bite of cake in all your hungry life, he always, when you stood at his door looking shyly within, gave you pat on your head with the information that you were as pretty as your mother. It may have been that the emptiness of your purse caused you to look upon him as bugbear sure it is that on this occasion, with money in your pocket, you strode into his shop at the head of a crowd of hun gry and thirsty but impecunious ur- chins, with an independence that the day might have envied. "Cakes and beer"-can you forget them? Up the street you plodded, to the school house, where the crowd assembled, and where anvils were booming in the name of freedom. The town orator read the immortal Declaration, the la- dies waved their handkerchiefs and the men shouted and then came the barbecue. You reveIed in delight the day long. Is it unreasonable for you to assert that "Yankee Doodle" is the grandest tune that ever melted men to great deeds? The band played that tune. The violins were divine those who handled them were demi-gods. The fellow who performed on the flute had but one eye; and to this day you feel that if seeing be necessary to the production of good music, this man could with two eyes at his ser- vice, have rendered harmonies at which angels would have clapped their hands in rapturous applause. You followed that band through the streets. It was carried in new wagon made for the purpose by the wheelwright and