The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1900-10-12
THE RURAL BAND.
An Aggregation OF Talent That Per-
forms some Extraordinary Feats
of Musical Characters.

The rural band can do things that
Sousa's band even cannot.
1t can go on an excursion and play
it's three tunes, one after the other,
from the time the excursion starts
until it ties up at home. You can
never tucker new band. Later, when
they get to be symphonic and soloistic
and all Of that, they get woefully
tired and play slow tunes and take
long rests and look bored when they
receive an encore. like to see new
band get an encore, even after it had
been playing all day. They strike
right in and jam wind with all the
enthusiasm displayed by Lewiston's
new fire whistle, says the Journal.
Once saw rural band playing in
front of a country hotel. A steep
embankment ran sIoping from the
piazza. The band men stuck their toes
N and hummed away cheerfully at
''The Washington Post March," and
everything was going handsomely.
But the bass drummer forgot himself
and went to wipe his heated brow.
To do that he was obliged to let go
of his big drum. The drum started
rolling down the hill The drummer
ran after it. The pitch was so steep
and his legs were SO short that he
just reached 1t with the drum
stick and SO kept up the regular beat
all the way down the hill. Never
missed strickland the band kept
onl At the foot of the incline the
i drum went up against an obstruction
and halted so suddenly that the drum
mer went over it head lirst. 1t hap
pened that there was a rest of few
beats for him at that place in the mu-
sic, and he was able to get on his
feet and boost the drum on his knee
in season to take up the thing where
he left off. And as ne marched back
again up the hill, pounding cheerfully
away, maybe you think he didn't get
'.the hand"
Now, I'll wager that Sousa's bass
drummer couldn't do that.
The leading man of the town had
died and the village band was engaged
to lead the cortege to the burial yard.
The dead march as played by the
band, with most lugubrious tootle by
all brass instruments, was especially
solemn.
The most solemn part was when the
band was entering beneath the gate
way of the village cemetery.
1t was a solemn place, that GEM
etery gateway, with its funeral trim
mings. 1t was double gate. In the
center on the ground was a little
block where the gates were latched
at the foot. The trombone player,
with his eyes intent on the solemn
music in his catch, stubbed his toe
against the block. As he tripped he
threw out hand to save himself,
and the trombone blatted so furious
ly-right in the midst of those solemn
chords-that everyone jumped in
alarm. Then the trombone's end
struck the ground ere he could get his
mouth away from the end. The in
strument emitted another bray that
was fairly demoniac.
1t happened right under the noses
of the horses drawing the hearse, and,
of course, they SHE'D, and one of them
stepped on the trombone. That
scared them in earnest and they start
ed. They ran the band down-they
routed it, and they tore down the
cemetery avenue with the driver
hanging on for grim death. He made
the circle of the main drive twice ere
he was able to master the terrified
animals, and the rest of the funeral
train remained quiet ana witnessed
that remarkable "hoss race" with
varying emotiorA
There have many things happened
in that particular town, but moth
ing that developed so suddenly from
the deeply solemn into the intensely
exciting.
The trombone player had recovered
his battered horn and stood there
dusty and hatless watching the inn
promptu chariot race
When the horses were finally cap
tured and subdued he looked at his
torn trousers, then at his battered
horn, then at the little book in the
roadway and finally at the horses
once more. And he isn't wicked
man. If he were 1 should have to
paint red streak across the foot of
this column. AS 1t was, he slowly
wiped his mouth, looked again at the
crushed horn. "WalI, I'll be dod-but-
tered to swan" says he.
And the meek shall inherit the
earth!
To add bit to this day of the pic
turesque in obsequies, the band re-
turned from the cemetery playing
cheerfully, "Massa's in the cold, cold
ground"
But the trombone player wasn't in
it. His horn was jammed together SO
tightly that he couldn't get wind
enough through it.