“She is a fine teacher,” responded the old gentleman. “She had not been here long, but she had a good following. She has temperament.” “Has she?” Uncle William looked after her a little quizzically. “Makes ’em stand around does she? You can’t ever tell about temper. Sometimes it’s the quietest ones has the wust. But she makes ’em work good. You can see that.” “Yes, she makes them work.” The old gentleman smiled upon him kindly and patronizingly. He had been born and brought up in New York. He was receptive to new ideas and people. There was something about Uncle William--a subtle tang--that he liked. It was a new flavor. Uncle William studied his program. “Sounds more sensible’n some of it.” He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. “I can understand that, now, ’To an Old White Pine.’ That’s interestin’. Now that one there.” He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, “‘Opus 6, No. 2, A minor, All-e-gro.’ Now mebbe _you_ know what that means--_I_ don’t. But an ol’ white-pine tree--anybody can see that. We don’t hev ’em up my way--pine-trees. But I like ’em--al’ays did--al’ays set under ’em when they’re handy. You don’t hev many round here?” The old gentleman smiled. “No; there are not many old white pines in New York. I can remember a few, as a boy.” “Can ye?--Right in the center here?” Uncle William was interested. “Well, not just here--a little out. But they’re gone.” The old gentleman sighed. “MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can hear the wind soughing through them and the branches creaking a little and rubbing, and a still kind of light all around. It’s very nice.” “Good poetry, I s’pose,” assented Uncle William. “I don’t care so much for poetry myself. Some on it’s good,” he added thoughtfully. “‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,’ that swings off kind o’ nice, and ’Horatius at the Bridge.’ But most on it has a kind o’ travelin’ round way with it--has to go round by Robin Hood’s barn to get anywheres. I’m gen’ally sort o’ drowsy whilst it’s bein’ read.” The old gentleman had laughed out genially. “MacDowell doesn’t write poetry, except short things--lines for headings. He makes it on the piano.” “Makes an old white-pine tree?” demanded Uncle William. “Well--something like that.” Uncle William returned to his program. “There’ll be a ’water-lily,’ then, will the’ and an ’eagle,’ and a ’medder brook,’ and a ’wanderin’ iceberg,’ and a ’pair o’ bars’?” He looked up with a soft twinkle. “And like enough a rooster or two, and a knock-kneed horse. I keep a-wonderin’ what that wanderin’ iceberg’ll be like. I’ve _seen_ a wanderin’ iceberg,--leastways I’ve come mighty near one,--but I ain’t ever _heard_ it. You ever met a wanderin’ iceberg?” His tone was friendly and solicitous. The New York man shook his head. “Only the human kind.” Uncle William chuckled. “I’ve met that kind myself--and the other kind, too.” He paused suddenly. The audience had hushed itself. Sergia was seated at the piano.