I
wish I could play the snare-drum.
In the Mechanicsburg band is a boy about fourteen years old, a
muscular, sturdy chunk of a lad. He walks with his heels down,
his calves bulged out behind, his head up, and the regular, proper
swagger of a bandsman. He hasn't any uniform, but he's all right.
He plays a solo B part, and he and the other solo cornet spell each
other. On the repeat of every strain my boy rests, and rubs his
lips with his forefinger, while he looks at the populace with
bright, expectant eyes. When he blows, he scowls, and brings the
cushion of muscle on the point of his chin clear up to his under
lip, and he draws his breath through the corners of his mouth.
He's the real thing. Bright boy, too, I judge, the kind that has
a quick answer for everybody, like: "Aw, go chase yerself," or
"Go on, yeh big stiff." Watch him on the countermarch when they
pass the Radnor cornet band. The Radnors broke up the Mechanicsburg
band last year and they're going to try to do it again this year.
The musicians blow themselves the color of a huckleberry, and the
drummers grit their teeth, and try to pound holes in their
sheep-skins. Aha! It's the Radnor band got rattled in its time
this year. Went all to pieces. The boy snatches, a rest. "Yah!"
he squawks. "Didge ever get left?" and picks up the tune again.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135