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his genius and understood and sympathized with was then removed to a private asylum, where he all his thoughts and aspirations. In 1844 they died in 1856. His life had a very pathetic ending; made a concert tour through Russia, when the wife but had it not been for the intelligent care of his played her husband's compositions. They were wife he would probably have fallen a victim to the received everywhere with admiration. On their disease much earlier. return, they settled at Dresden, where he gave his In comparing Schumann's work with that of attention to his symphonies; but Schumann now other composers, we should never forget the great grew very melancholy and eccentric; he had all services he rendered to music in his writings; some kinds of delusions; but he recovered from the even consider him greater as a critic than as a attack and went on composing. In 1850 he was composer. He was not appreciated during his appointed City Musical Director at Dusseldorf. life. His musical ideas were in direct contrast to He and his wife went on several concert tours, those of the school then popular, led by Mendelsbut he found plenty of time to compose. His sohn. The latter's music is always clear and elegant creative powers had never before seemed so active; in form, like a finely-cut cameo, while Schumann he could not help composing. In 1851 he had a cared more for the feeling, or emotion, and gave return of ill-health. He became very gloomy, and little attention to the finish. He wished only to in one of his despondent fits he threw himself into present something warm and striking, and took the Rhine, but was rescued and carried home. He no pains to put it into any special shape.
A SPRIGHTLY little lady riding in a city car,
“I 'm quite a favorite, it seems, among the cats," said she,
But I 'm grieved to say their voices, although powerful and clear,
“I open wide my window and I wildly make pretence
To enjoy the little arias they warble on the fence,
But, though I 'm sure the poor things try to do their very best,
But I could n't hurt the feelings of a little pussy-cat !
Can accompany their voices and instruct them by and by,
UNCLE AND AUNT.
BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.
UNCLE and Aunt were a very dear and rather Aunt, too, was a New Englander, but of a queer old couple, who lived in one of the small slightly different type. She was the squire's cousin villages which dot the long indented coast of Long before she became his wife ; and she had the family Island Sound. It was four miles to the railway, so traits, but with a difference. She was spare, but the village had not waked up from its colonial sleep she was also very small, and had a distinct air of on the building of the line,-as had other villages authority which made her like a fairy godmother. nearer to its course, - but remained the same She was very quiet and comfortable in her ways, shady, quiet place, with never a steam-whistle nor but she was full of “faculty," that invaluable a manufactory bell to break its repose.
endowment which covers such a multitude of Sparlings-Neck was the name of the place. No capacities. Nobody's bread or pies were equal hotel had ever been built there, so no summer to Aunt's. Her preserves never fermented; her visitors came to give it a fictitious air of life for a cranberry always jellied; her sponge-cake rose to few weeks of the year. The century-old elms heights unattained by her neighbors', and staid waved above the gambrel roofs of the white, there, instead of ignominiously “flopping” wher green-blinded houses, and saw the same names on removed from the oven, like the sponge-cake of door-plates and knockers that had been there inferior housekeepers. Everything in the old when the century began: “Benjamin,” “Wilson,” home moved like clock-work. Meals were ready “Kirkland,” “Benson,” “Reinike,”— there they to a minute; the mahogany furniture glittered all were, with here and there the prefix of a dis- like dark-red glass; the tall clock in the entry tinguishing initial as, “ J. L. Benson,”
.” “ Eleaser
was never a tick out of the way; and yet Aunt Wilson,” or “ Paul Reinike.” Paul Reinike, fourth never appeared to be particularly busy. To one of the name who had dwelt in that home, was not conversant with her methods, she gave the the “Uncle" of this story.
impression of being generally at leisure, sitting Uncle was tall and gaunt and gray, of the tra- in her rocking-chair in the “keeping-room,”—hemditional New England type. He had a shrewd, dry ming cap-strings, and reading Emerson, for Aunt face, with wise little wrinkles about the corners of liked to keep up with the thought of the day. the eyes, and just a twinkle of fun and a quiet kind- Hesse declared that either she sat up and did liness in the lines of the mouth. People said the things after the rest of the family had gone to bed, squire was a master-hand at a bargain. And so he or else that she kept a Brownie to work for her; was; but if he got the uttermost penny out of all but Hesse was a saucy child, and Aunt only smiled legitimate business transactions, he was always indulgently at these sarcasms. ready to give that penny, and many more, when- Hesse was the only young thing in the shabby ever deserving want knocked at his door, or a old home; for, though it held many handsome good work to done showed itself distinctly as things, it was shabby. Even the cat was a sober needing help.
matron. The old white mare had seen almost half
as many years as her master. The very rats and York had taken place when Hesse was about fifmice looked gray and bearded when you caught a teen; now she was to make another. And just as glimpse of them. But Hesse was youth incarnate, this story opens, she and Aunt were talking over and as refreshing in the midst of the elderly still- her wardrobe for the occasion. ness which surrounded her as a frolicsome puff of “I shall give you this China-crape shawl,” said wind, or a dancing ray of sunshine. She had Aunt decisively. come to live with Uncle and Aunt when she was Hesse looked admiringly but a little doubtfully
ten years old; she was now nearly eighteen, and at the soft, clinging fabric, rich with masses of yelshe loved the quaint house and its quainter low-white embroidery. occupants with her whole heart.
“I am afraid girls don't wear shawls now," she Hesse's odd name, which had been her mother's, ventured to say. her grandmother's, and her great-grandmother's “My dear," said Aunt, “a handsome thing is before her, was originally borrowed from that of always handsome; never mind if it is not the last the old German town whence the first Reinike had novelty, put it on, all the same. The Reinikes can emigrated to America. She had not spent quite wear what they like, I hope ! They certainly know all of the time at Sparlings-Neck since her mother better what is proper than these oil-and-shoddy died. There had been two years at boarding- people in New York that we read about in the newsschool, broken by long vacations, and once she had papers. Now, here is my India shawl,"— unpinmade a visit in New York, to her mother's cousin, ning a towel, and shaking out a quantity of dried Mrs. De Lancey, who considered herself a sort of rose-leaves,—“I lend you this; not give it, you joint guardian over Hesse, and was apt to send a understand.” frock or a hat, now and then as the fashions changed, “ Thank you, Aunt, dear.” Hesse was secretly that “the child might not look exactly like Noah, wondering what Cousin Julia and the girls would and Mrs. Noah, and the rest of the people in the say to the India shawl. ark,” she told her daughter. This visit to New “You must have a pelisse of some sort,” con
tinued her aunt; “but perhaps your Cousin De It belonged to my grandmother, and it has a Lancey can see to that. Though I might have love-story connected with it." Miss Lewis for a day, and cut over that handsome “A love-story ! oh, tell it to us,” said Grace, camlet of mine. It 's been lying there in camphor the second of the De Lancey girls. for fifteen years, of no use to anybody."
“Why,” explained Hesse ; “ you see, my grand“Oh, but that would be a pity !" cried Hesse, mother was once engaged to a man named John with innocent wiliness. “The girls are all wear- Sherwood. He was a ' beautiful young man,' Aunt ing little short jackets now, trimmed with fur or says; but very soon after they were engaged, he fell something like that; it would be a pity to cut up ill with consumption, and had to go to Madeira. He that great cloak to make a little bit of a wrap for gave Grandmamma that pin before he sailed. See,
there are his initials, ‘J. S.,' and hers, ‘H. “Fur,” said her aunt, catching at the word; L. R.,' for Hesse Lee Reinike, you know. He “the very thing! How will this do?” dragging gave her a copy of ‘Thomas à Kempis' besides, out of the camphor-chest an enormous cape, which with • The Lord do so to me, and more also, if seemed made of tortoise-shell cats, so yellow and aught but death part thee and me,' written on brown and mottled was it. “Won this do for the title-page. I have the book, too; Uncle gave a trimming, or would you rather have it as it is ? " it to me for my own."
“I shall have to ask Cousin Julia,” replied “ And did he ever come back?" asked Pauline. Hesse. “Oh, Aunt, dear, don't give me any "No," answered Hesse. “He died in Madeira, more! You really must n't! You are robbing and was buried there; and quite a long time yourself of everything!” For Aunt was pulling afterward, Grandmamma married my grandfather. out yards of yellow lace, lengths of sash ribbon of I'm so fond of that queer old brooch, I like to faded colors and wonderful thickness, strange, old- wear it sometimes." fashioned trinkets,
" How does it look?" demanded Pauline. “And here is your grandmother's wedding- “ You shall see for yourself, for I 'll wear it togown,-and mine!” she said ; “ you had better night,” said Hesse. take them both. I have little occasion for dress And when Hesse came down to dinner with the here, and I like you to have them, Hesse. Say quaint ornament shining against her white neck on no more about it, my dear.”
a bit of black velvet ribbon, even Pauline owned There was never any gainsaying Aunt, so Hesse that the effect was not bad - queer, of course, and departed for New York with her trunk full of unlike other people's things, but certainly not bad. antiquated finery, sage-green and “pale-colored” Mrs. De Lancey had a quick eye for character, and silks that would almost stand alone; Mechlin she noted with satisfaction that her young cousin was lace, the color of a spring buttercup; hair rings neither vexed at nor affected by her cousins' critiset with pearls, and brooches such as no one cisms on her outfit. Hesse saw for herself that her sees, nowadays, outside of a curiosity shop. Great things were unusual and not in the prevailing was the amusement which the unpacking caused style, but she knew them to be handsome of their in Madison Avenue.
kind, and she loved them as a part of her old “ Yet the things are really handsome,” said home. There was, too, in her blood a little of Mrs. De Lancey, surveying the fur cape critically. the family pride which had made Aunt say, “ This fur is queer and old-timey, but it will make “The Reinikes know what is proper, I hope." quite an effective trimming. As for this crape So she wore her odd fur and made-over silks and shawl, I have an idea,- you shall have an over- the old laces with no sense of being ill-dressed, and dress made of it, Hesse. It will be lovely with a silk that very fact “carried it off” and made her seem slip; you may laugh, Pauline, but you will wish well dressed. Cousin Julia saw that her wardrobe you had one like it when you see Hesse in hers. was sufficiently modernized not to look absurd or It only needs a little taste in adapting, and for- attract too much attention, and there was sometunately these quaint old things are just coming thing in Hesse's face and figure which suited the into fashion."
character of her clothes. People took notice of Pauline, a pretty girl,— modern to her finger- this or that, now and again,- said it was pretty, tips — held up a square brooch, on which, under and where could they get such a thing?-and, pink glass, shone a complication of initials in gold, Aattery of flatteries, some of the girls copied her the whole set in a narrow twisted rim of pearls and effects ! garnets, and asked:
“Estelle Morgan says, if you don't mind, she “How do you propose to adapt’this, Mamma?” means to have a ball-dress exactly like that blue
“Oh!” cried Hesse, “I would n't have that one of yours," Pauline told her one day, 'adapted' for the world. It must stay just as it is. “Oh, how funny! Aunt's wedding-gown made up with surahs !” cried Hesse. “Do you remember Mrs. De Lancey had written to beg for a little exhow you laughed at the idea, Polly, and said it tension. Gayeties thickened as Lent drew near, would be horrid ?"
and there was one special fancy dress ball at Mrs. “Yes, and I did think so,” said Polly ; “but Shuttleworth's, about which Hesse had heard a somehow it looks very nice on you. When it is great deal, and which she had secretly regretted to hanging up in the closet, I don't care much for it.” lose. She was, therefore, greatly delighted at a
“Well, luckily, no one need look at it when it is letter from Aunt, giving her leave to stay a forthanging up in the closet,” retorted Hesse, laugh- night longer. ing.
“Uncle will come for you on Shrove-Tuesday,” Her freshness, her sweet temper, and bright wrote her Aunt. "He has some business to capacity for enjoyment had speedily made Hesse attend to, so he will stay over till Thursday, and
a success among the young people of her cousins' you can take your pleasure till the last possible set. Girls liked her, and ran after her as a moment." social favorite ; and she had flowers and german “How lovely!” cried Hesse. "How good of favors and flatteries enough to spoil her, had she you to write, Cousin Julia, and I am so pleased been spoilable. But she kept a steady head through to go to Mrs. Shuttleworth's ball.” all these distractions, and never forgot, however “What will you wear?” asked Pauline. busy she might be, to send off the long journal- “Oh, I have n't thought of that, yet. I must letter, which was the chief weekly event to Uncle invent something, for I don't wish to buy another and Aunt.
dress, I have had so many things already." Three months had been the time fixed for Hesse's “Now, Hesse, you can't invent anything. It's stay in New York, but, without her knowledge, impossible to make a fancy dress out of the rag