The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1902-1939, 1923-03-19
By Bernard Breslauer.

- MURRY VANCE breezed
into the apartments of Viola
. Mansfield, coincidence, mu-
sic devotee and sweetheart. lifted
the laughing Viola off her feet in
q bearlike embrace and cried,
waving aloft a sheet OF music:
MY latest song-hit. fresh from
the presses of Tin Pan Alley,
enough for a honeymoon, and err
mine wraps and q bungalow and
everything!''
Do let me down, you old Jazz
bear, she cried. you've crush.
ed me most to death. Now, be
good and play it to me-
Taking his hand in hers, she
led him to the piano. He spread
the music. put his great blond
head up for her caress, and be-
gan to play.
When she spoke he turned in
arnaxefnent.
am entertaining q thief.
You stole the melody from one of
Franz Schuhert's Moment Mu-
sicales. Don't deny it and make
matters worse. Schubert, who
lived in poverty and died in pow
erty, and who probably didn'r
make more than 5000 on six hun.
dred songs. each one of which is
worth a thousand rags OF 1923.
And now you want me to wear
an ermine wrap on the proceeds
Of this steal when Schubert froze
in q thin. shabby overcoat?''
He stared at her blanlxly.
"Wh-what do you want me
to do?.
Withdraw 1t from circulation.
"Butbut ! can't do that I'VE
signed the contract"
She rose in agitation. her lips
trembling. Nervously she pluck
ed at her left hand.
Here" she said with a catch
In her throat.
"Why-what for?"
Your ring. Take it."
He took it obediently and MUIR
INJURED with an effort:
II didn't know you felt so
strongly about this. Why, they
all do it, dearest"
What they all do doesn't inter-
est me. It's what you've done
that hurts. When you can do
good original work shall be able
to have the respect for you a
wife ought to have for a hua-
band. Until then I can't Steal
ing melodies is no better than
safe-breaking."
He took his hat, walked shakily
to the door and went out. Viola
threw herself on the lounge and
buried her face in the pillows.
When the maid came into the
room and hurried to her side with
anxious questionings, her only an
swer was a muffled sob and a
dismissing wave of the hand.
In the Berkshires hurry strove
to adapt himself to a world which
had no Viola in. IT,.
Came the day. when, after three
hours of walking beneath the
warm spring sun. he lay down on
a knoll in a grassy meadow and
looked up with lack-lustre eyes
at the lazy blue sky. A gentle
breeze famed his hot cheeks.
Many birds sang to him. 1t was
quiet-and peaceful.
He rose to a sitting posture and
looked at the birds. They were
perched on barbed-wire fence
close by, singing the eternal song
of spring-and love.
He stared at the fence with wide
and wondering eyes. Then he
whipped pencil and paper from his
pocket. For each wire Of the
fence he drew a line. There were
five OF them. For each bird on
the five wires he drew a note.
Then he breathed ,reverentiy, in
awe and wonder at what he had
CHANGED to see.
What a theme, what a themev
Then he began to compose fever
ishly from the theme that the
birds had given him. The sun
moved down the sky. Twilight
came. The theme was complete.
He rose and walked out upon the
road toward the farm house. He
walked quickly, buoyantly, on fire
with a great exuItation.
The farmers wife rejotced in his