Home-brewed Harmony.

In spite of radio, there are omens of the return of home-fire harmony. Once more the young are waking the welkin with scales and quavers and quivers and crochets. The borer has packed his bràce-and-bit and departed from the old piano. Once more are heard the homely cries of maddened mothers exhorting their young to wrestle with “The Harmonious Black-smith,” and get the low-down on “The Dance of the Fairies.”. After many moons and moans we have the pleasant picture of Little Letitia kicking the front off the piano in baffled rage. But it's all to the good, for it's better for the music to go round and round than to stay in the studio and go to pot. Soon we may see the return of the old “musical” evening when everybody “did” something. Soon we may re-gather round the piano and uncork the week's repressions until all the pictures go crooked and father puts wedges in the windows. Mr. Strongly, fifteen stone two in his socks, may sing “Tinklebell,” and Mrs. Tot may sing “I Strike Again My Tuneful Lyre,” while Mr. Tot looks apprehensive in the corner. Little Winnie Woop may fascinate us again with her loose front tooth which waggles while she recites “The Death of Sir John Moore” with suitable—and unsuitable—actions.

And nobody will think it necessary to say, “What perfect rendition of the subtler sublimity,” or “How ineffably inchoate,” or even “My dear, did you

“Small men with elephant fiddles which look like baby ears in their singlets, and large men with flutes on their hips.”

ever hear anything so perfectly triste?” No, sir. You will merely say, “Thanks, Mr. Gurgle. That was great,” and the next performer will throw in the clutch and step on the gas. Large florid men will arrive with a flute on the hip, and small bald men will stagger in with those elephant fiddles which look like baby-cars in their singlets. It will be great to get back to home-brew harmony.