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I can play on the piano to imitate any birds that ever sung at home, and father loves that. I can play all the dead-marches to make mother cry, and I can play oh, such dance music for Aunt Katie O'Flynn! It doesn't matter that I should know more, does it?" "I can't agree with you. It would be a very great pleasure to me if I saw you presented with a musical scholarship."
The thousand heartaches; the fingers clutching hungrily at keys that might be other fingers; the fiddler with his eyelids clenched while he dreams that the violin, against his cheek is the satin cheek of "the inexpressive She;" the singer with a cry in every note; the moonlit youth with the mandolin tinkling his serenade to an ivied window; the dead-marches; the nocturnes; the amorous waltzes; the duets; the trills and trinkets of flirtatious scherzi; the laughing roulades; the discords melted into concord as solitude into the arms of reunion these are music's very own.
He petted his garden as usual, and whistled softly to himself, as was his constant habit, but he insanely pinched the buds off the flowering plants, and his whistling sometimes plaintive, sometimes hopeless, sometimes wrathful, sometimes vindictive in expression was restricted to the execution of dead-marches alone.
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