"Of course, of course," says the first doctor who is the one who brought me to the hospital. "It is very thoughtless of us. I shall get your instrument and you can come home with me until you are able to adjust yourself to our way of living. It will be a great pleasure to show you what we have accomplished in the time since you can remember, though I must say that none of us has done what you have." He laughs a little at that, and I figure he is a nice guy, so I say I will be happy to accept his offer. I go home with him and he introduces me to his wife who is a very nice appearing female. He tells her all about me and he keeps saying how remarkable it is all the time. * * * * * It is the next morning when I come down to breakfast that I meet the doctor's daughter, who is a very lovely little number of about twenty, and I see that my stay is going to be a very pleasant one indeed. She says, "Dad has been telling me all about you, Mr. McRae, and I'm going to see to it that you really see the New York of Twenty-Five O Seven. He wants to drag you to a lot of stuffy old lectures and scientific conventions, and exhibits you like a freak, but I'm taking charge today." I remark that that will be fine. Well, we start right out, and it is amazing what has been done in my absence. Ann--that is the little number's name--tells me about the change in one thing and another; they are now taking vacations on Venus and Mars, and it is merely a matter of a couple of hours to get to San Francisco or London. Of course this is all very interesting, but I am interested in what they are doing in the musical line. I tell Ann this. "We are in luck," she says, "for there is a concert tonight up in Albany and you will be able to hear all the finest music there." "I do not wish to hear the long hairs play," I tell her. "Let us go down along Fifty-Second Street and listen to a little barrelhouse. That is my racket." "There is no musical organization on Fifty-Second Street," Ann says. "We do all our listening and looking at concerts like this one in Albany, and it is the only sort of music we have." By this time we are home, so I ask Ann if she would like to hear how we played it back in the Twentieth Century. She replies that she would, but not to let her father, the doc, know about it because he is something of a bug on the modern music and considers the old style quite degenerate. I laugh at this. "What he means by the old style is probably something I have never heard," I say. "You must remember that I am almost six hundred years old, so my style is practically antique. Why, your father did not even know that my horn was a musical instrument until I told him my story, and it is indeed a shame that there are not a few old Beiderbecke platters around so you all could hear what you've been missing."