unless it forces itself upon him with the insistence of
destiny from the outset.

While the critics have admitted the freshness, originality and general
excellence of MacDowell's work and marveled over his versatility, his
shorter piano pieces and songs are as yet most popular in the making
of programmes. However, Henry T. Finck says of his sonatas: "As
regards the sonatas, I ought to bear MacDowell a decided grudge. After
I had written and argued a hundred times that the sonata form was
'played out,' he went to work and wrote four sonatas to confute me. To
be sure, I might have my revenge and say they are 'not sonatas'; but
they are no more unorthodox than the sonatas of Chopin, Schumann,
Liszt and Grieg, though they have a freedom of their own which is
captivating. They are brimful of individuality and charm; they will be
heard often in the concert halls of the future."

The "Sonata Tragica" might have been written of the composer himself,
and "The Heroica" could easily have been inspired by his wife, instead
of by the Arthur legends, for she is a knightly soul, combining to a
most unusual degree the artistic temperament, womanly tenderness and
charm, with a chivalrous sort of courage, suggesting Tennyson's lines:

"My woman-soldier, gallant Kate,
As pure and true as blades of steel."

These are busy days for her at Peterboro, where she is daily striving
to put the MacDowell ideals into permanent and practical effect. The
plan is most appealing and can, perhaps, be better understood by
contrast, if a little insight is given into a state of things, the
amelioration of which is the purpose of the project.

You are invited, then, to step into a neat and attractive modern
apartment kitchen, say three years ago. The grocery boy had just left.
Everything was there, and of unusually good quality--crisp lettuce,
golden oranges, the inevitable loaf of whole wheat bread, the sugar
and lemons--and as the housekeeper compared the articles with the
grocer's book which she held in her hand, she gave a start. Some one
across the way was playing "To a Wild Rose." Yes, it was Wednesday,
and a glance at the kitchen clock revealed the fact that in ninety
minutes the MacDowell Club would be called to order, and she had
promised a poem for the programme. Shades of Sappho! What was to be
done? There had been no time in the two weeks since the last meeting,
between housekeeping, mending, grinding out of pot-boilers and
countless i