appellation of modern phraseologists), was of a lofty descent, his father being inspector of windmills in the ancient town of Saardam; and our hero, we are told, when a boy, made very curious investigations into the nature and operation of these machines, which was one reason why he afterwards came to be so ingenious a governor."

He was a very irascible, tyrannical ruler, and became more and more so as the months and years went by. The council meetings held by his subjects to discuss events relating to their government and the welfare of the colony became exceedingly stormy, and he took the following means of making them more to his liking:

"Observing that on these occasions the pipe was ever in their mouth, he began to think that the pipe was at the bottom of the affair, and that there was some mysterious affinity between politics and tobacco smoke. Determined to strike at the root of the evil, he began, forthwith, to rail at tobacco, as a noxious, nauseous weed; filthy in all its uses; and as to smoking he denounced it as a heavy tax upon the public pocket; a vast consumer of time; a great encourager of idleness, and a deadly bane to the prosperity and morals of the people. Finally, he issued an edict prohibiting the smoking of tobacco throughout the New Netherlands."

Of course, such an edict as this could not be obeyed by any self-respecting Dutchman. "The pipe, in fact,

was the great organ of reflection and deliberation of the New Netherlander. It was his constant companion and solace-was he gay, he smoked; was he sad, he smoked; his pipe was never out of his mouth; it was a part of his physiognomy; without it his best friends would not know him."

"The immediate effect of the edict of William the Testy was a popular commotion. A vast multitude, armed with pipes and tobacco-boxes and an immense supply of ammunition, sat themselves down before the governor's house and fell to smoking with tremendous violence. The testy William issued forth like a wrathful spider, demanding the reason of this lawless fumigation. The sturdy rioters replied by lolling back in their seats and puffing away with redoubled fury, raising such a murky cloud that the governor was fain to take refuge in the interior of his castle."

The picture is an excellent study of the costume of the period, as it represents the typical Dutch soldier, the thrifty citizen and the workman, and would make the schoolgirl's or boy's interest in the history of New York much greater. As a basis for historical study, the picture would suggest the following outline:

Dutch Settlers. -Discoveries of Henry Hudson. Dutch claims to territory. English claims to territory. Result. Influence of the Dutch-upon colonial history; upon American literature; upon New York history of the present time. Some interesting souvenirs in the way of street and family names, etc.

GUSSIE S. WILKINS
Washington, D. C.

Everyone knows of Mozart, the boy; the marvelous little musician who played the clavier at an age when boys are in kilts; of the concerto composed at five, and his famous defense against the charge of its difficulty: "That is just why it is called a concerto, people must practice it diligently;" of his concert tour through Germany at six, and a year later through France (where he published his first set of sonatas), and then England, astonishing everybody by his precocity, and winning all hearts with his frank, amiable nature.

9:2

9:

around us, Evening qui-et clos-es down.

dim.

Leopold Mozart was an accomplished violinist, a subordinate of the archbishop of Salisbury, and in every sense an excellent father. Wolfang was trained to habits of systematic, thorough work; desultory study was not tolerated; the best models only were placed before him; each day closed with a summary of the work performed. The father become the boy's companion and adviser, the diplomatic manager of his affairs, and the impartial critic of his works. Under such wise fostering Mozart reached his twenty-first year, an artist in three instruments, and the greatest composer in all Europe.

Italy then, as Germany now, stood supreme in the musical world. It had a "musical climate," Jahn says, "in which artists found it easy to breathe;" and a musician lacked prestige who had not toured and studied in Italy. Leopold Mozart knew this, and the household economy bent itself to this end. At twentyone Wolfgang had had his Italian studies, his Italian.

audiences, and his Italian triumphs. He had been received an honorary member of the Academy Filarmonica of Bologne at fourteen, an honor never conferred by statute upon youth under twenty; he had been knighted in Rome in the order of the Golden Spur; he had consorted with the first artists, poets and musicians; had been courted, caressed, flattered-without deriving much pecuniary benefit from it all.

The inclination of Mozart s genius in 1777 is shown in one of the Mannheim letters in which he begs his father, "Do not forget my wish to write

operas! I am jealous of everyone who writes one. I could weep for vexation when I hear or see an aria; but seria, not buffa; Italian, not German." He modified his views somewhat, for after the triumphant production of his "Entfürung aus dem Serail," he writes: "My opinion is that Italian opera will not survive long, and I shall hold to the German. Every nation has its opera; why not we?"

For nearly a quarter of a century the opera in Europe had been in a state of transition. In Alcestel (1767) Gluck had made a radical departure from current forms, reviving pure lyric drama from the slumber of over a hundred years. He says, "I shall try to reduce music to its real function, that of seconding poetry by intensifying the expression of sentiments and the interest of situations without interrupting the action by needless ornament."

Mozart's creed on the same subject is interesting: "After all, in opera the words must be the handmaid of the music. It would be well if a good composer who understood the theater, and a clever poet (like a veritable phoenix) could be united in one." Both masters reached after psychological unity between music and verse, Gluck by means of a carefully worked-out plan, Mozart through force of pure dramatic instinct. Mozart did more; he seized upon the best in Italian and German art and from the chemical refinery of his mind produced operas, not Italian or German merely, but Mozartean. In his "Idomeneo," "Die Entfürung aus dem Serail," "Figaro," "Don Giovanni," and "Die Zanberflöte," the music drama in Europe reached the highest degree of perfection. His familiarity with every detail of the science enabled him to employ every known device for true dramatic delineation of his subjects, his refinement of taste prevented any approach to overstrained passion, grotesque humor, or weak sentiment; every phrase, every idea is worked out with the care of a master sculptor, and the whole is informed with irresistibly bewitching melody. The grand finales to "Figaro" and "Don Giovanni" are at once the wonder and despair of every other composer.

Mozart enriched every department of music, and into everything he infused dramatic fervor. Of his three great symphonies (there are forty-eight in all) the "Jupiter," in C major, is of a grand, majestic temper; the E flat, for its seductive sweetness, is called the swan's song; the G minor is like a hopeless striving against destiny.

Weakness

Who is it will not dare himself to trust?
Who is it hath not strength to stand alone?

Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward must?
He and his works like sand from earth are blown.
--James Russell Lowell.

Who Gives Us Our Thanksgiving Dinner?

On Thanksgiving day little Dorothy said,
With many a nod of her wise curly head,
"The cook is as busy as busy can be,
And very good, too,-for 'tis easy to see

She gives us our Thanksgiving Dinner."
"Oh! no, little Dorothy," answered the cook,
"Just think of the trouble your dear mother took
In planning the dinner and getting for me
The things that I cook; so 'tis mother, you see,

Who gives us our Thanksgiving Dinner." "Of course it is mother; I ought to have known," Said Dorothy then, in a satisfied tone. But mother said smiling: "You are not right yet; 'Tis father who gives me the money to get

The things for our Thanksgiving Dinner." But father said: "I earn the money, 'tis true; But money alone not a great deal can do. The butcher, the grocer, whose things we must buy, Should not be forgotten, for they more than I Will give us our Thanksgiving Dinner." "Oh! isn't it funny?" said Dorothy then; "And now, I suppose, if I asked these two inen, The grocer, the butcher, about it, they'd say It surely is somebody else and not they

Who gives us our Thanksgiving Dinner." And soon little Dorothy heard with delight That her guess about grocer and butcher was right. The grocer said he only kept in his store What milier and farmer had brought in before To help for the Thanksgiving Dinner. The jolly old butcher laughed long and laughed loud, "My Thanksgiving turkeys do make me feel proud. And one's for your dinner; but then you must know The turkeys are raised by the farmer, and so

He gives you your Thanksgiving Dinner." "Oh, yes! 'tis the farmer; at last I've found out," Said Dorothy then, with a glad little shout. "The miller must go to the farmer for wheat, The butcher from him gets the turkeys we eat; Yes! he gives our Thanksgiving Dinner." "But yet all the others had something to do; The miller and butcher and grocer helped, too.

And then there was father and mother and cook.

I never before knew how many it took To give us our Thanksgiving Dinner."

So said little Dorothy, full of surprise, And feeling that now she had grown very wise.

But what do you think? Had she found

it all out?

about

Who gives us our Thanksgiving Dinner? -Kindergarten Review.

Thanksgiving

Summer is gone, autumn is here,
This is the harvest for all the year,
Corn in the crib, oats in the bin,
Wheat is all threshed, barley drawn in.

Carrots in cellars, beets by their side, Full is the hayloft, what fun to ride! Apples are barreled, nuts laid to dry, Frost in the garden, winter is nigh.

Father in heaven, we thank Thee for all. Winter and springtime, summer and fall; All Thine own gifts to Thee we bring, Help us to praise Thee, our heavenly king.

A Rhyme of the Balls

My ball is blue

A color true,
And like the sky
Above so high.

My ball is yellow,
Like apples mellow;
The shade of flowers
In summer bowers.

My ball is red,
The color said

To tint the wing
Of birds that sing.

Look! mine is green,
Which is the queen
That paints the trees
And the far-off seas.

Orange have I,

And who'll pass by
The fruit so sweet
When you chance to meet?

Purple comes now;
You know just how

It is the shade

For pansies made.

Blue, yellow, red, green,
Orange and purple;
With these we may form
A brilliant circle.

-Rosina A. Kinsman.

Yes, I love the little winner,

With the medal and the mark;
He has gained the prize he sought for,
He is joyous as a lark.

Everyone will haste to praise him;
He is on the honor list.
I've a tender thought, my darlings,
For the one who tried and missed.
One? Ah me! they count by thousands,

Those who have not gained the race,
Though they did their best and fairest,
Striving for the winners place.
Only few can reach the laurel;
Many see their chance flit by.
I've a tender thought, my darlings,
For the earnest band who try.
'Tis the trying that is noble,

If you re made of sterner stuff Than the laggards who are daunted When the bit of road is rough. All will praise the happy winners; But when they have hurried by, I've a song to cheer my darlings, The great company who try.

-Success.

J.G. Whittier

Polly's Dilemma

There's something that I've thought
I wish you'd 'splain to me:
Why, when the weather's warm,
There's leaves on every tree,
And when they need them most

To keep them warm and nice,
They loose off all their clothes
And look as cold as ice.
Of course it's right for folks,

But I'm thinking 'bout the trees. I'd like to wrap them up in shawls For fear they're going to freeze.

Beclouded

-Sel.