one
there." He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, "'Opus 6, No. 2, A
minor, All-e-gro.' Now mebbe _you_ know what that means--_I_ don't. But
an ol' white-pine tree--anybody can see that. We don't hev 'em up my
way--pine-trees. But I like 'em--al'ays did--al'ays set under 'em when
they're handy. You don't hev many round here?"

The old gentleman smiled. "No; there are not many old white pines in New
York. I can remember a few, as a boy."

"Can ye?--Right in the center here?" Uncle William was interested.

"Well, not just here--a little out. But they're gone." The old gentleman
sighed. "MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can hear the wind soughing
through them and the branches creaking a little and rubbing, and a still
kind of light all around. It's very nice."

"Good poetry, I s'pose," assented Uncle William. "I don't care so much
for poetry myself. Some on it's good," he added thoughtfully. "'The Boy
Stood on the Burning Deck,' that swings off kind o' nice, and 'Horatius
at the Bridge.' But most on it has a kind o' travelin' round way with
it--has to go round by Robin Hood's barn to get anywheres. I'm gen'ally
sort o' drowsy whilst it's bein' read."

The old gentleman had laughed out genially. "MacDowell doesn't write
poetry, except short things--lines for headings. He makes it on the
piano."

"Makes an old white-pine tree?" demanded Uncle William.

"Well--something like that."

Uncle William returned to his program. "There'll be a 'water-lily,'
then, will the'? and an 'eagle,' and a 'medder brook,' and a 'wanderin'
iceberg,' and a 'pair o' bars'?" He looked up with a soft twinkle.
"And like enough a rooster or two, and a knock-kneed horse. I keep
a-wonderin' what that wanderin' iceberg'll be like. I've _seen_ a
wanderin' iceberg,--leastways I've come mighty near one,--but I ain't
ever _heard_ it. You ever met a wanderin' iceberg?" His tone was
friendly and solicitous.

The New York man shook his head. "Only the human kind."

Uncle William chuckled. "I've met that kind myself--and the other kind,
too." He paused suddenly. The audience had hushed itself. Sergia was
seated at the piano.

It was a Beethoven number, a sonata. Uncle William apparently went to
sleep. Sergia, watching him, smiled gently. He must be very tired, poor
dear. The next number will keep him awake all right. It did. It was sung
by a famous baritone--"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest! Yo ho! Yo ho!"
Uncle William sat up. Joy radiat