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beautifully alive as it responds to the lightest wish of the master。 The
distinction between its notes is more delicate than between the notes of
the piano。
I enjoy the music of the piano most when I touch the instrument。 If I
keep my hand on the piano…case； I detect tiny quavers； returns of
melody； and the hush that follows。 This explains to me how sound can die
away to the listening ear：
。 。 。 How thin and clear；
And thinner； clearer； farther going！
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing！
I am able to follow the dominant spirit and mood of the music。 I catch
the joyous dance as it bounds over the keys； the slow dirge； the
reverie。 I thrill to the fiery sweep of notes crossed by thunderous
tones in the 〃Walkuere；〃 where _Wotan_ kindles the dread flames that
guard the sleeping _Brunhild_。 How wonderful is the instrument on which
a great musician sings with his hands！ I have never succeeded in
distinguishing one position from another。 I think this is impossible；
but the concentration and strain upon my attention would be so great
that I doubt if the pleasure derived would be mensurate to the
effort。
Nor can I distinguish easily a tune that is sung。 But by placing my hand
on another's throat and cheek； I enjoy the changes of the voice。 I know
when it is low or high； clear or muffled； sad or cheery。 The thin；
quavering sensation of an old voice differs in my touch from the
sensation of a young voice。 A Southerner's drawl is quite unlike the
Yankee twang。 Sometimes the flow and ebb of a voice is so enchanting
that my fingers quiver with exquisite pleasure； even if I do not
understand a word that is spoken。
On the other hand； I am exceedingly sensitive to the harshness of noises
like grinding； scraping； and the hoarse creak of rusty locks。
Fog…whistles are my vibratory nightmares。 I have stood near a bridge in
process of construction； and felt the tactual din； the rattle of heavy
masses of stone； the roll of loosened earth； the rumble of engines； the
dumping of dirt…cars； the triple blows of vulcan hammers。 I can also
smell the fire…pots； the tar and cement。 So I have a vivid idea of
mighty labours in steel and stone； and I believe that I am acquainted
with all the fiendish noises which can be made by man or machinery。 The
whack of heavy falling bodies； the sudden shivering splinter of chopped
logs； the crystal shatter of pounded ice； the crash of a tree hurled to
the earth by a hurricane； the irrational； persistent chaos of noise made
by switching freight…trains； the explosion of gas； the blasting of
stone； and the terrific grinding of rock upon rock which precedes the
collapse……all these have been in my touch…experience； and contribute to
my idea of Bedlam； of a battle； a waterspout； an earthquake； and other
enormous accumulations of sound。
Touch brings me into contact with the traffic and manifold activity of
the city。 Besides the bustle and crowding of people and the nondescript
grating and electric howling of street…cars； I am conscious of
exhalations from many different kinds of shops； from automobiles； drays；
horses； fruit stands； and many varieties of smoke。
Odours strange and musty；
The air sharp and dusty
With lime and with sand；
That no one can stand；
Make the street impassable；
The people irascible；
Until every one cries；
As he trembling goes
With the sight of his eyes
And the scent of his nose
Quite stopped……or at least much diminished……
〃Gracious！ when will this city be finished？〃＇B＇
＇Illustration： Copyright； 1907； by The Whitman Studio
〃Listening〃 to the Trees
To face page 70＇
The city is interesting； but the tactual silence of the country is
always most wele after the din of town and the irritating concussions
of the train。 How noiseless and undisturbing are the demolition； the
repairs and the alterations； of nature！ With no sound of hammer or saw
or stone severed from stone； but a music of rustles and ripe thumps on
the grass e the fluttering leaves and mellow fruits which the wind
tumbles all day from the branches。 Silently all droops； all withers； all
is poured back into the earth that it may recreate； all sleeps while the
busy architects of day and night ply their silent work elsewhere。 The
same serenity reigns when all at once the soil yields up a newly wrought
creation。 Softly the ocean of grass； moss； and flowers rolls surge upon
surge across the earth。 Curtains of foliage drape the bare branches。
Great trees make ready in their sturdy hearts to receive again birds
which occupy their spacious chambers to the south and west。 Nay； there
is no place so lowly that it may not lodge some happy creature。 The
meadow brook undoes its icy fetters with rippling notes； gurgles； and
runs free。 And all this is wrought in less than two months to the music
of nature's orchestra； in the midst of balmy incense。
The thousand soft voices of the earth have truly found their way to
me……the small rustle in tufts of grass； the silky swish of leaves； the
buzz of insects； the hum of bees in blossoms I have plucked； the flutter
of a bird's wings after his bath； and the slender rippling vibration
of water running over pebbles。 Once having been felt； these loved voices
rustle； buzz； hum； flutter； and ripple in my thought forever； an undying
part of happy memories。
Between my experiences and the experiences of others there is no gulf of
mute space which I may not bridge。 For I have endlessly varied；
instructive contacts with all the world； with life； with the atmosphere
whose radiant activity enfolds us all。 The thrilling energy of the
all…encasing air is warm and rapturous。 Heat…waves and sound…waves play
upon my face in infinite variety and bination； until I am able to
surmise what must be the myriad sounds that my senseless ears have not
heard。
The air varies in different regions； at different seasons of the year；
and even different hours of the day。 The odorous； fresh sea…breezes are
distinct from the fitful breezes along river banks； which are humid and
freighted with inland smells。 The bracing； light； dry air of the
mountains can never be mistaken for the pungent salt air of the ocean。
The air of winter is dense； hard； pressed。 In the spring it has new
vitality。 It is light； mobile； and laden with a thousand palpitating
odours from earth； grass； and sprouting leaves。 The air of midsummer is
dense； saturated； or dry and burning； as if it came from a furnace。 When
a cool breeze brushes the sultry stillness； it brings fewer odours than
in May； and frequently the odour of a ing tempest。 The avalanche of
coolness which sweeps through the low…hanging air bears little
resemblance to the stinging coolness of winter。
The rain of winter is raw； without odour； and dismal。 The rain of spring
is brisk； fragrant； charged with life…giving warmth。 I wele it
delightedly as it visits the earth； enriches the streams； waters the
hills abundantly； makes the furrows soft with showers for the seed；
elicits a perfume