In a little Michigan town my band was booked for an afternoon
concert, and on our arrival the local manager assured us that we
should have a good house, although there was no advance sale. He
explained this by saying that the townspeople did not like to buy
their tickets until the last minute.

The theatre was on the second floor of the town hall, the ground
floor being given over to the fire department, the especial pride
of the community. Twenty minutes before the concert a large crowd
had gathered round the box-office to buy tickets when the
fire-alarm sounded, and the entire population promptly deserted the
muse of music and escorted the engine and hose-cart to the scene of
action, leaving the band absolutely without an audience.



A Tuneful Locomotive.

Once when we were playing during warm weather in a theatre situated
near a railroad, the windows were left open for ventilation. The
band was rendering a Wagner selection, and at the climax was
playing with increasing force. The last note to be played was a
unison B flat, and as I gave the sign to the musicians to play as
strong as possible the volume of sound that followed fairly
astonished me. I had never heard fifty men play with such force
before and could not account for it, but the explanation soon
became manifest. As the band ceased playing, the same note
continued in the blast of a passing locomotive that had opportunely
chimed in with us in unison.