necessities the least bit greater than his own. He must not yield to
them, so, in the eager crowd, he pushed and scrambled as the others
did, and always kept in front.

"What kin yer play?" the fat and blear-eyed manager asked gruffly.

"I play the flute."

"Bring it along?"

"Yah; surely."

"Let 'er go, then. Give us something good and lively."

With nervous hands Herr Kreutzer raised the old flute to his lips,
with fingers which put tremolos where none were written in the score;
but he made many of the notes dance joyously. Through anxious lips he
blew his soul into the instrument--his love of the pre-eminent
composer who had sung the song he played, his love of his sweet
daughter for whose sake he played--his love of her and fear for her if
he should fail to win the favor of his burly listener. The great
"Spring Song" of Mendelssohn has never been played on a flute as
Kreutzer played it, in the grey light of that morning in the
cheerless, bare beer-garden. When he had finished there was silence in
the crowd behind him. Not a man among the applicants for the position
was a real musician, but all knew, instinctively, that they had been
listening to a veritable artist. Then, after an awed moment, there
came a little spatter of applause. All these men were seeking for a
chance to earn the mere necessities of life; every one of them was
more than anxious, was pitifully eager for the small position which