After Rossini had listened patiently he said: “That is all very well. Yet, I should like it better if you had died and your uncle had composed the funeral march.” Rossini and His Watch The famous composer possessed a magnificent watch that his king had presented to him. It was a repeater and also a musical watch, for it played the _maestro’s_ prayer from “Moses in Egypt.” But not until after he had owned it for six years, did he understand it fully. Rossini took a boyish delight in showing it and making it play, and one day he did so while in a café. A stranger who sat near was attracted by the music, and just as Rossini was going to put it back in his pocket, he stepped up to him and said: “You have a very valuable watch there, sir, but I’ll wager that you do not know all its capabilities.” Rossini, much surprised said: “I have carried it now for six years, in honor of my king. It has never varied one minute, it repeats the hour, quarter-hour, tells the minutes and the day of the month, and plays as you have just heard, the prayer from ‘Moses.’” “And yet, I insist,” said the stranger smilingly, “that you do not know your watch wholly. I’ll wager anything you like,—your watch against ten thousand francs!” “Oh, well, if you have ten thousand francs too many, I’ll take the bet,” cried Rossini; “but now give me the proof of your assertion.” “Very well,—the watch plays another piece of yours, master, and contains your portrait besides.” Speechless, Rossini saw that when the stranger touched a spring a lid flew back, disclosing his portrait, while at the same time it played “Di Tanti Palpiti” from “Tancred.” “Good gracious!” he exclaimed, looking at his lost watch, “it is true, you have won the wager; but how could I know?” The stranger, laughing heartily, handed him back his treasure saying: “I am the maker of this watch, Michel Plivée. The wager was made in fun, but I am delighted, that you, the great _maestro_, take such pleasure in my work.” He Didn’t Mean It The well-known pianist, Sophie Menter, delighted everybody with her simple, natural ways. One day in Pesth, while in a company of artists and lovers of art, Liszt among them, a young count, carried away by her playing, cried enthusiastically, “Mein Fräulein, I lay myself at your feet!” “Well,” said Sophie Menter, stepping back and smiling roguishly, “go on, lie down!” “Oh, I did not mean it literally like that,” replied the count in consternation. “Now you see,” said the young girl seriously, “that you should never say what you do not honestly mean.” How a Fugue Was Made Kirnberger, the son of a carpenter, was taught music at an early age. One day he sat in a corner of his father’s workshop, poring over a task his teacher had set him. Every now and then the boy would sigh deeply, and rub his forehead vigorously. His father who had been watching him for some time, at last asked: “Well, my boy, what is the trouble?”