The courtesy with which Mr. Henri treats all his subjects stamps his technique and his color with that final necessary thing. In Mr. Bellows the organization stands the test, but Bellows seems to be wanting. Mr. Sloan, with his humpy line, makes one feel a soul that has never blown out like an unfurled scroll. _Frederic Stuck!_ There is an unintentional explanation in the German pronunciation of Mr. Stock’s name as to why the Orchestra programs never “move on” with new music or with much variation of the old. “Huppdiwupp”[1] He lived on the side of a mountain near a dark pine forest. His house was built of great pine logs and the cracks were so well plastered with clay that the wind could never blow in. When it blew very hard the little house laughed and sent the smoke gaily up the chimney which had once been a stove pipe. There was only one room in the house, with one window, but the sun loved the little room and shone in always when the day was at its height. Friedel lived here almost alone, for his father was dead and his mother washed clothes for strangers. With the money she earned every day she bought bread and a little butter for her boy, and every year trousers or a coat; but she could not earn enough to send Friedel to school. This gave him no sorrow, and that they were so poor had no meaning for him. In the summer he grazed his goat on the mountain-side—a willful goat who always sought his feed where it was steepest and always ran away; but Friedel knew that at last he would come back and so he sat quietly by the brook which sprang zig-zag down the mountain and through the thickets of slender pines. The pines tried to catch the water but they were not quick enough; and the little stream leaped down to a great city which lay not far away in the valley. As it dashed over the bare feet of the little boy it said, “Come, little Friedel, run with me, run with me and help turn the great water-wheel of the mill.” “I’m not so stupid as that,” answered Friedel. “I wouldn’t get a penny for it. But you will wash away a few shovels of yellow clay for me, won’t you?” Out of the clay he made all kinds of curious things: Meckerbart, his goat, and Hans, the miller’s boy, who always let him ride on his donkey; or even the donkey himself. And as he worked he thought of nothing but his work; he saw nothing, heard nothing—not even the blackbird singing like a flute. So it was in the summer. But when winter came Friedel sat in the room on a chair which he had made himself, and in the stove crackled the fir-wood which he had gathered. At his feet lay Miez, the cat, who was so old and lazy that she could scarcely make her spinning-sound. When the clouds would allow it the sun looked in through the window and wondered over the boy who carved such lovely things. He carved with a knife which had belonged to his father—a knife so sharp that he could have cut both hair and beard with it.