Life's Minor Collisions Part 4

"Well," said our grandmother, resuming her sewing, "I shouldn't wonder if the other pa.s.sengers on that train thought that something had happened to Geoffrey."

To govern one's own kinsmen successfully, one certainly does need to be on the spot. One cannot afford to leave them for an instant. One should be alert and watchful, and as diplomatic as circ.u.mstances will allow.

The ability to boss implies a ready understanding and the knack of seeing the end from the beginning. It implies also a hardy const.i.tution and the gift of tongues. But after all, in the last a.n.a.lysis, it is largely a matter of the Will.

MORE TO IT THAN YOU'D THINK

I am often reminded of a lady, who, during the war, volunteered to oversee all the Canteen work for soldiers pa.s.sing through our town. Her favorite phrase, accompanied by a surprised accent, became the following one: "There's more _to_ this job than you'd think from the outside looking in." Then she would proceed with many astounding details: soldiers who required two cups of coffee, or three lumps of sugar, milk that in the course of time became dubious, and trains that in the course of time became late.

I sympathized with this lady and helped her wash the dishes. And I have never questioned her statement. Moreover, I have yet to find the job to which this statement does not apply. I suppose that, until you become a postal clerk, you know very little about the intricacies into which a capital "S" may go, or how the rats eat the stamps. A job is always annotated for the employee.

Certainly, teaching school introduces you to manifold works which could not be antic.i.p.ated by looking in. In fact, when my friendly janitor once said that it must be very easy to teach the First Grade, I caught myself falling back on the popular phrase with some emotion--"There's more to it than you'd think." My most baffling problems were just a little too complex to mention to my janitor.

"What instantly comes to your mind," says my college friend who is "taking" Psychology, "when I say the word 'ping-pong'?"

I tell him. By right of which I retaliate, "What instantly comes to your mind when I say the word 'sand-table'?"

"Oh, little paper pine trees," responds the student (who is also "taking" Education),--"and wigwams and canoes, and a real piece of gla.s.s for a pond."

All this comes to my mind, too,--with addenda. The addenda, however, come to my mind first: Spilling Sand, Sweeping up Sand, Trailing your fingers in Sand as you march past, and, if you are _very_ newly five years old, Throwing Sand. This is not because I am soured on the sand-table. I have merely learned that there is more _to_ one than you would suspect from the outside of one, looking in. Sand-tables may mean pine trees, and they may mean pandemonium.

Throw several such freighted words into a mixed group, and the reactions are pa.s.sionately interesting. If you say, "Muscular movement," "Interest and Attention," "Socialized Cla.s.ses," or "Projects," you can sift out the school-teachers by their smile.

In fact, there is a very large group of noun substantives which mark, for an Elementary teacher, at least, the seasons of the year. Usually she has a top drawer full of these. Many a teacher longs for the horse-chestnut-on-a-string season to appear, if only to finish up the season of the maple-key;--that large pale-green maple-key, which, by clever splitting of the central seed, may be made to stay on one's nose.

My young friend Junior O'Brien once read to me "The Three Billy Goats Gruff," with a maple-key over each ear, one on his freckled nose, and two on his apple cheeks. I gave over my reading-lesson period to researches as to how his hard little cheeks could yield enough slack to accommodate a key; and before I was ready to ask Junior to remove his decorations, the force of gravity intervened.

The maple-key, I suppose, suggests eye-gla.s.ses. Certainly a bit of wire, twisted into spectacles, follows keys. These may be very ornate in the upper grades, more nearly approaching the lorgnette, or even the opera-gla.s.s. It is a fascinating thing to see what a wire hairpin correctly treated will do to a young face. It lightens my day's load, this vision of grave childish eyes through the twisted rims, and that magnificent effort of will, contrary to nature, to obtain perfect immobility of the nose.

In company with the gross of wire spectacles in my drawer are numerous "snapping-bugs." These may be bought for one cent each, in the snapping-bug season, of the ice-cream man. They are double bugs of tin, which, if pinched in the proper spot, will yield a sharp click reminiscent of the old-fashioned stereopticon lecture. Snapping-bugs may go far in "socializing" a First Grade, and in making friends with a newcomer at recess, but when they snap in school they give me an uneasy sense that my audience is in haste to have the picture changed. So I have six snapping-bugs.

I have five tumble-bugs. These are vivid green or purple gelatin capsules about an inch long, each housing a lead ball. Place the bug on an inclined plane, and it will promptly turn right side up, or the other side up, as long as the plane continues to incline. Since tumble-bugs are practically noiseless, their life is somewhat longer than that of their snapping cousins.

I have one sling-shot. It might be argued that First Graders are too young for sling-shots. So they are. They all too often receive their own charge full in the eye. They much prefer their comfortable acorn pipes.

These are pandemic in October, as are also balloons.

I once perceived Dominick, in the height of the balloon season, with a frankfurter balloon, a shape then new. The active part was at just that moment inert--a dried and crumpled wisp of rubber. But its tube was unmistakably going to be blown. Dominick will never know how much his teacher wished to see his balloon, properly inflated, swaying and glowing as only a green sausage balloon can glow. I was deterred by a misgiving as to whether this type of balloon collapsed quietly after its magnificent spectacle, or whether it was of that variety which emits a peculiar penetrating whistle as it shrinks--an unmistakable sound, due to be placed accurately in her list of sounds by my teacher-friend next door, who does not approve of balloons in academic session. Dominick, however, wished more than I did to see his lighter-than-air craft in all its glory. I finally deposited it among the false noses and horse-chestnuts in my drawer.

I used to wonder why a teacher _wanted_ marbles and walnuts, and pencil-sharpeners shaped like a rabbit. She doesn't. She simply does not want to hear them dropping, dropping, ever dropping, like the pennies in Sabbath School. There is something thrilling to _any_body about a real agate. If it is about, you have to look at it. It is so perfectly round.

Anything perfectly round, or perfectly cylindrical, likes, as we learn in Kindergarten, to roll. It likes, upon occasion, to "rest"; but it does not like this nearly as well. It is not fair to a child to let him spend his time playing with an agate in school. Neither is it fair to him to destroy the beauty of an agate for him--the charm of its shape, or the marvel of its construction. A teacher should strike a medium so delicately and absolutely medium that the angels themselves pause lest they jar the weights.

But the most curious phenomenon which I have observed, one which could not possibly be antic.i.p.ated by an outsider looking in, is the effect of my setting the clock. There are times when a perfectly innocent shuffling of thirty-four feet in the First Grade a.s.sumes proportions far more important than Murder in the First Degree. Then it is that I set the clock. If it does not need setting, I set it forward first, and then back again. The clock is high on the wall, reached by the janitor (all too seldom) from a very high step-ladder. I set it from the floor. I take the yardstick and advance on the clock. It is a nice operation to push up the gla.s.s crystal with a pliant stick, haul down the minute-hand, and finally to close the door. The door must first be lifted into its proper position, and then hammered shut. Each bang of the yardstick sounds as if it would be followed certainly by showers of broken gla.s.s. I think that this uncertainty is what keeps my pupils'

hearts fluttering and their feet still. Deathly silence always accompanies my setting of the clock. An imperceptible sound of relief, like a group-sigh, follows the click of the door in its catch. I can tiptoe back, on that sigh, to quiet industry.

It is true that children, with the best intentions, sometimes bring inappropriate busy-work to school. But teaching them has not dowered me with any disdain for my students. They are beneath me only in years. In fact, I raise my hat to some of them in spirit, as I teach them to raise theirs to me in truth. Here and there I calmly recognize a superior. I am constantly taking care that no youthful James Watt can say to me in later years, "You put out my first tea-kettle which boiled in school."

I suppose that Pauline will eventually be a gracious hostess, saying just the right thing to her guests and to her husband--charming every masculine acquaintance on sight. Even now, I find that she is engaged, provisionally, to James Henry Davis. Perhaps some day Adamoskow, with his long clever fingers and his dreamy eyes, and no head whatever for "number," will be charging me five dollars a seat to hear him play. His impresario can count the change for him.

And I know that James Henry Davis, at seventeen, will have the power to break hearts to the right of him, and hearts to the left of him, with the same dimple, the same wonderful pompadour, and the same lifted eyebrow that he now uses for the same purpose in Grade I. I know that he will out-dance his dancing-master at his Junior Prom. I shall wonder, when I see him in his white gloves, how I ever dared to take his acorn pipe away. Therefore I take it away as innocuously as possible, and touch his soft pompadour, in pa.s.sing, with a reverent hand.

TRIO IMPETUOSO

The first steps of certain things are beautiful; the first flush of buds along a maple branch, for instance, or the first smooth launching of an Indian canoe. But the first steps of music are commonly not so. The first note of a young robin is a squawk. The first piercing note of a young violinist is not in tune with the music of any sphere.

Musicians learn to expect a certain amount of wear and tear in first attempts. Even the professional orchestra makes bad work of a new symphony the first time through. And in an amateur orchestra, where the players are of various grades of proficiency, the playing of a new piece of music is a hazardous affair.

In our own orchestra, when we read a new piece of music for the first time, we usually decide to "try it once through without stopping." Come what will, we will meet it together. The great thing is to keep going.

Sometimes we emerge from this enterprise with all bows flying and everybody triumphantly prolonging the same last note. At other times we come out at the finish one by one, each man for himself, like the singers in an old-fashioned round-song rendering of "Three Blind Mice."

To enjoy playing in an orchestra like ours, the musician should have a great soul and a rugged nervous system. He should not be too proud to play his best on music that is too easy for him, and he should not be afraid to try music that is too hard. Music within the easy reach of every member of an amateur orchestra is scarce. The first time through, there is usually somebody who has to skirmish anxiously along, experimenting softly to himself when he loses his place, and coming out strong when he finds it again. From among the many desirable notes in a rapid pa.s.sage, he chooses as many as he can hit in the time allowed, playing selected grace-notes here and there, and skipping the rest. We cannot all have everything.

Most amateurs call this process "vamping the part." This, and the clever deed known as "cueing in" pa.s.sages supposed to be played by instruments that we lack, are our chief offences against the law.

There are proud spirits in the world who refuse to have anything to do with either of these sins. When they come to a pa.s.sage that is not well within their reach, they lay down the fiddle and the bow, and sit back tolerantly while the rest go on without them. Their motto is the one made famous by a certain publishing house: _Tout bien ou rien._ That is a fine watchword for a publisher, but fatal in a scrub orchestra. There, it is likely to mean that "tout" must go "bien," or you resign.

n.o.body has ever resigned from our orchestra. We are called a Trio, because our minimum is three. But, in actual fact, we rarely play with less than seven performers. Whenever we are about to play in public, we reenforce ourselves with additional instruments, beginning with a favorite extra violin. If we are to play in the evening, we can count on a viola and a clarinet, played respectively by the senior and the junior partner of a hardware firm: Mr. Bronson and Mr. Billings, of Bronson and Billings. If we are to play on Sunday, we are sure of a double-ba.s.s. And on state occasions, we are joined by an attorney-at-law who plays the piccolo. People who invite us to play always request music by Our Trio, and then inquire delicately how many of us there will be.

A trio of this kind is sure to be in demand. In making our way to the place where we are to play, we have learned to go in relays through the streets. This is not because we are ashamed to be seen carrying the badge of our talent through the town, but because if we all go together there is a discussion about who shall carry what instruments. Barbara, our 'cellist, is the storm-centre of these broils. The 'cello, like some people, has the misfortune to look a great deal heavier than it really is. No gentleman likes to let a lady carry one.

"Really, it's as light as a feather," says Barbara, swinging it easily alongside.

"But," reasons the viola earnestly, "think how it looks."

To avoid all friction, Barbara goes ahead with the gentleman who plays the ba.s.s-viol. Together they present a striking aspect to the pa.s.ser-by, but they have peace and mutual understanding in their hearts. n.o.body could expect a gentleman, however gallant, to carry both a 'cello and a double-ba.s.s.

The rest of us follow along at a safe distance, and arrive at becoming intervals at the place where we are to play.

For convenience in talking among ourselves, we have divided our performances into three cla.s.ses: the platform performance, the semi-screened, and the screened. Our semi-screened programmes are those where we are partly hidden from view, in choir-lofts, conservatories, verandas, and anterooms. The screened are those that take place behind palms. Of all these sorts, we vastly prefer the screened.

Each of us has a special reason for this preference. Mr. Bronson, the viola, prefers it because, screened, he is allowed to beat time with his foot. There is something very contented-looking about the tilt of his long shoe, thrust out informally amidst the shrubbery--the toe rising and falling in exact rhythm with the music, now legato, now appa.s.sionato, our perfect metronome. Such happiness is contagious.

Barbara likes to be screened because then she can dig a tiny hole in the floor for the end-pin of the 'cello, and stick the pin into it once for all, while she plays. The vogue of the waxed hardwood floor is a great trial to 'cellists. It is upsetting to feel your great instrument skidding out from under you suddenly, with a jerk that you can neither foresee nor control. When we go to places where the device of boring a hole in the floor may not be well received, Barbara takes along a neat strip of stair-carpet, anchors it at one end with her chair and at the other with her music-stand, and sits on it firmly, much as the ancient Roman used to camp upon a square of tessellated pavement brought with him from Rome.

Mr. Billings, the clarinet, likes the screened performance because his wife has told him that he has a mannerism of arching his eyebrows when he plays. In playing a wind-instrument, the eyebrows are a great help.

He can arch them all he likes, behind the palms.

The rest of us enjoy the sense of cosy safety that comes when we arrange our racks, distribute the parts, and settle down with our backs to the foliage for an evening of music, out of sight. We can play old favorites, far too tattered to appear on a printed programme; new things not sufficiently rehea.r.s.ed; extracts from compositions that we cannot play beyond a certain point; and, best of all, those beloved collections of what Mr. Robert Haven Schauffler used to call "derangements." All these things, barred by the platform artist, we play blissfully, behind the potted plants.

Since everybody outside our leafy covert is talking, we are free, not only from criticism, but also from the obligation of acknowledging applause. All the little niceties of platform procedure--bowings, exits, dealing with encores--are out of the question. Since we play continuously, there is no chance for encores.

There has been one exception to this rule. One night at a Saint Patrick's Day banquet, Our Trio was out in full force. Even the piccolo was with us. Our corner was carefully walled in with heavy burlap screens, because this was a business-men's supper, and no ladies were supposed to be present. We had brought along a sheaf of Irish music in honor of the day, and we played it unexpectedly after a series of other things. As we finished one of the appealing Irish airs, the applause broke out all over the hall in a genuine encore. We listened, electrified, laying an ear to the cracks. Barbara, who thinks that we are altogether too easily set up by the plaudits of the crowd, stood up, 'cello at an angle, and made a series of elaborate bows for our benefit behind the screen. The viola sprang to his feet and joined her, and they were bowing and sc.r.a.ping hand in hand like Farrar and Caruso, when the front screen was thrown suddenly wide open by the toastmaster who had been sent to request an encore, and no less than forty gentlemen looked in. Since that time, we have not felt too sheltered, even with burlap screens.