man that the horn was defective. What I wanted was a horn with insides
to it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe.
The man took it in his hand, put it to his lips and played "Sweet
Spirit, Hear my Prayer," as easily as if he were singing. He said that
what I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at last
made a sound. But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forcibly
of the groans uttered by Butterwick's horse when it was dying last
November. The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, and
that was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs.
A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed it
came from Twiddler's cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday
that the cow was sick.

For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling
groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house
because our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls
resigned successively for the same reason.

Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that "No One to Love" was an
easy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.

After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. several
times suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill that
suffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the first
three notes; but there I stuck. I could play "No One to--" and that
was all. I performed "No One to--" over eight thousand times; and
as it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, I
determined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About ten