boy of fifteen, with wavy hair and beautiful eyes.

Music was a serious rite with the Bremers. The father played the
piano, and the next oldest son to Friedrich was struggling with a
'cello; and when they played, the whole family sat in the parlor, even
the tiny tots, round-eyed and silent.

Samuel knew some "patriotic songs," and a great number of hymns, and a
few tunes that one heard at country dances. But such music as this was
a new revelation of the possibilities of life. He listened in a
transport of wonder and awe. Such wailing grief, such tumultuous
longing, such ravishing and soul-tormenting beauty! Friedrich had only
such technique as his father had been able to give him, together with
what he had invented for himself; his bowings were not always correct,
and he was weak on the high notes; but Samuel knew nothing of this--he
was thinking of the music. And he needed no one to tell him about it--
he needed no criticisms and no commentaries. Across the centuries the
souls of Schubert and Beethoven spoke to him, telling their visions of
the wonderful world of the spirit, toward which humanity is painfully
groping.

It was impossible for him to keep from voicing his excitement, and
this greatly delighted the Bremers, who craved for comprehension in a
lonely place. His sympathy gave wings to their fervor, and they played
the whole afternoon through, and then Johann invited them to stay to
supper, so that they might play some more in the evening.

"You should haf been a musician," he said to Samuel. "You vas made for
it."