skies That gladdened the eyes. So he kept on and swept on Through mean, sordid

years. Now he's up to his ears In the choicest of stocks. He owns endless blocks

Of houses and shops, And the stream never stops Pouring into his banks. I

suppose that he ranks Pretty near to the top. What I have wouldn't sop His

ambition one tittle; And yet with my little I don't care to trade With the

bargain he made. Just watch him to-day-- See him trying to play. He's come back

for blue skies. But they're in a new guise-- Winter's here, all is gray, The

birds are away, The meadows are brown, The leaves lie aground, And the gay brook

that wound With a swirling and whirling Of waters, is furling Its bosom in ice.

And he hasn't the price, With all of his gold, To buy what he sold. He knows now

the cost Of the spring-time he lost, Of the flowers he tossed From his way, And,

say, He'd pay Any price if the day Could be made not so gray. _He can't play._

 

--HERBERT KAUFMAN. Used by permission of _Everybody's Magazine_.

 

_Change of Tempo Prevents Monotony_

 

The canary in the cage before the window is adding to the beauty and charm of

his singing by a continual change of tempo. If King Solomon had been an orator

he undoubtedly would have gathered wisdom from the song of the wild birds as

well as from the bees. Imagine a song written with but quarter notes. Imagine an

auto with only one speed.

 

EXERCISES