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Updated: August 11, 2024
Discerning this by a sort of higher intuition, he had thrown himself into the undertaking of luring the most expert saxophone performer of his acquaintance away from the flaunting tents of the transgressor and herding him into the fold of the safely regenerate. He succeeded.
She is colored like a panther flower and her limbs are heavy with taboo magic. But she is still imperial. In vain the mountebanks and burlesqueries of her court. Her lips place themselves against the hearts of the dancers on the cabaret floor. And she croons her ancient hymns. The hearts of the dancers give themselves to the saxophone. Their feet keep a rendezvous with the umpah umps.
By day a short-order cook, by night he played in 'Gustus Hillman's Colored String Band. It is to be marked down in the reader's memory that the instrument he played was the saxophone; also that he was heavily impregnated with that form of professional jealousy which lurks in the souls of so many artistes; likewise that he was a member in fair standing of the Rev.
Though it grows out of the main theme, yet the change is clear in a return to the subject, now in true variation, where the saxophone has the longer notes and the clarinet and oboe sing in concert. There follows a pure interlude, vague in motive, full of dainty touches. The oboe has a kind of arioso phrase with trilling of flutes and clarinets, answered in trumpets and harp.
Often in ten lines that a child might play he has introduced poems of unequalled elevation, dramas unrivalled in force and energy. He did not need the great material methods to find expression for his genius. Neither saxophone nor ophicleide was necessary for him to fill the soul with awe. Without church organ or human voice he inspired faith and enthusiasm."
A tear fell upon the floor and rebounded against one of the rustic posts. "No, No!" said she in sudden contrition, burying her face in both her shapely hands. "Say anything but that! I did not mean me hasty words. My uncle is a congressman, and he has told me all." A silence fell between us. The sob of the saxophone, still doing jazz, came through the window.
After he had been there a week, we discovered that he had a saxophone. No one had ever heard or eaten a saxophone, but we looked it up, and when we found out what it was, we made a rush for him. At the next practice he appeared with a bright silver instrument covered with two bushels of keys and played a solo which sounded like three clarionets with the croup.
Sometimes I steal away from the pleadings of the saxophone, leaving even Stella O'Cleave with the slumberous eyes sitting alone at the log rail of Old Faithful Inn. I want to see Maw once more, and talk with her once again about the virtues of a vacation now and again; at least once in a lifetime spent in work for others. I do not always find the girls at home in the camp.
Once more I recalled the classic story no doubt you know it well. A musician one evening passed a hat among the dancers, after a number had been concluded. "Please, sir," said he to each, "would you give fifty cents to bury a saxophone player?" Then out spoke one jovial guest, to the clink of his accompanying coin: "Here's three dollars, friend. Bury six saxophone players!"
He liked "Johnston's Gardens" where they danced, where a tragic negro made yearning, aching music on a saxophone until the garish hall became an enchanted jungle of barbaric rhythms and smoky laughter, where to forget the uneventful passage of time upon Dorothy's soft sighs and tender whisperings was the consummation of all aspiration, of all content.
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