Pullman herald. [volume] (Pullman, W.T. [Wash.]) 1888-1989, 1890-11-29
THE MUSIC MAN.

aunt Betsy, said Della Grey, "can
l go over to the Drew place, to singing
school, to-night?''
mo, you can't, and there's an end
ont" said Aunt Betsey Blatchford,
knitting away as if her needles were
made of sheet lightning and her elbows
worked by electricity.
Della looked sober enough. She was
tall, fresh complexioned girl of II or
IS, with large brown eyes, forehead
surmounted by naturally curling rings
of chestnut hair, and sweet red mouth
always ready to break into gracious
smiles.
She had worked hard all day making
soft soap and finishing off the family
ironing, but her labors had been cheered
by the anticipation of the evening "sing-
ing school" that was to come.
1t is more than likely that Aunt Bet
sey knew all this, but she sat there like
determined Fate in brown calico
gown and fiuted cap frills. Aunt Betsey
was the autocrat of Robbery farm. E&e
owned the house and the surrounding
acres and the quartz mill by the river,
and Della, although by courtesy called
her niece, was in reality only distant
relation who, if not taken in and brought
up by old Mrs. Blatchford, would have
been turned over to the tender mercies
of the town poor house.
"Delia's good girl enough" said the
old woman, land spry worker as ever
was. But don't believe in girls larking
around the neighborhOod the hull time.
They're deal better off at home, SEWN
on their patch work or cuttin' rags for a
new kitchen carpet"
But | promised the schoolmaster,
Aunt Betsey," said poor Della, her dim
pied face falling like the barometer be-
fore a storm. He's to call for me at
half past 7! And he will see me safe
home afterward."
"Well, let him go away again." said
Aunt Betsey.
Della could hardly see the glitter of
the knitting needles through the tears
that blurred her vision at these cruel
words.
There's to be a dance out in the old
barn afterward," she ventured to add,
land | ironed my pink calico dress so
neatly, and my laces are all done up!
Oh, Aunt Betsey, I'd work so hard at
the carpet rags all the rest of the week
if you would let me go this once to sing
ing school"
Aunt Betsey wheeled herself round in
her chair and eyed Della sharply through
the moon like glasses of her big silver
bowed spectacles.
well, well, go if you want to-" said
she, tartly. Though all this music is
nothin but clear waste O time. In my
young days if we could join into the
psalm tunes in church it was all folks
expected of u.s.
Everybody plays and sings nova
days." ventured Della, whose loftiest and
brightest aspiration was for a melodeon
or cheap parlor organ of her own.
'Humph"' commented Aunt Betsey.
They'd deal better play on the wash
board and sing calling home the COWS!
That's the sort O music that pays!'
Della sighed and abandoned the ques-
ton. Consent to go to Singing school"
was sufficient Of victory for the pres
ent time. And when Marcus WAITE,
the village pedagogue, called for her at
the specified hour she was all ready. in
the stiff, rustling, pink dress, the freshly
ironed laces and a little pair of brown
cotton gloves over frilled ribbon wrist
lets that were entirely new.
But it's the last time" she sighed.
"Aunt Betsey thinks that music is use
less and nonsensical, and she won't have
me fooling away my time at singing
school, she says"
"Oh, Delia-and those lessons on the
melodeOn that nave been giving you at
DR.. Bartlett's.'
'They will all be of no use" said
Della, with little tremor in her voice.
Does she know that people sometimes
earn their living by the aid of music?''
persisted Wayte.
''She don't believe it,"
Auu you nave Sucn taste for 1T,
Della! Nay, more than taste-a decided
talent. Oh, we must not let the thing
drop. You must have a melodeon-it
won't cost much to hire one by the quar-
ter-and go on with your lessonsr'
Della shook her head.
at will be impossible" said she,
mournfully.
IN see about that" said Marcus
Wayte. My cousin is in the business
I'll send him to see your aunt"
Della shrugged her pink calico shout
ders. "Ah," said she, you don't know
Aunt Betseyr'
We'll" smiled Marcus, well see."
Mr.. Ives Wayte listened with the most
earnest interest to the tale of his cousin.
the schoolmaster.
''Got real talent for music, ehr-
said he
"a most decided one."
"And poor
''She is" answered Marcus. ssBut tbs