STOCK (_contemptuously_). Mr. Buffalo can't bear Chopin and Schumann.
Mr. Buffalo lately played through Schumann's "Kinderscenen," that people
are making such a talk about. My mamma, who is also musical, and used to
sing when papa played the flute, said, "What ridiculous little things
are those? Are they waltzes for children? and then the babyish names for
them! He may play such stuff to his wife, but not to us."

DOMINIE. Well, these "Kinderscenen" _are_ curious little bits for
grown-up men's hands. Your mother is right, they are too short: there
certainly ought to be more of them. But they are not waltzes!

STOCK. Indeed, I am not allowed to play waltzes at all. My teacher is
very thorough: first, I shall have to dig through all the Gradus ad
Parnassum; and then he is going to undertake a concerto of Beethoven's
with me, and will write the proper fingering over it. I shall play that
in public; and then, as he and my aunt say, "I shall be the death of you
all."

MR. BUFFALO (_who has overheard him, steps up_). Now, Herr Dominie, how
do you like my method? Perhaps you have a different one? Nevertheless,
that shan't prevent our being good friends. Certainly, if any thing is
to be accomplished in these times, it is necessary to keep at
work,--that is my doctrine. But Stock, here, has unusual patience and
perseverance. He has worked through all Cramer's 96 Etudes in succession
without grumbling. He was wretched enough over them; but his papa bought
him a saddle-horse to ride round on every day, and he revived in the
fresh air.

(_Herr Zach with his wife and an old aunt are playing cards in the